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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795588">mrs. robinson</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshapedearring/pseuds/starshapedearring'>starshapedearring</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>68 Kill (2017), Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Chip is a Himbo!, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Happy(ish), Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Mild Language, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, and then make you hurt, comes in short bursts, i will give you hope, not between main characters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:40:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>22,806</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795588</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starshapedearring/pseuds/starshapedearring</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>and here's to you, mrs. robinson<br/>jesus loves you more than you will know</p><p>Chip Taylor, just off a heist-gone-bad-murder-spree-trailer-burning bender, arrives in Waycross, Missouri. Beaten, bloody, and without his horrible other half, he sees a chance to hide his sixty-eight grand and maybe - just maybe - fall in love with someone new.</p><p>Only thing is, she's married.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chip Taylor/Original Female Character(s), Chip Taylor/Reader, Spencer Reid/Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. i ran (so far away)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello world! i'll try as hard as i can to post regularly, but with school coming up... you get it. thanks to my two awesome friends for beta-ing this for me. enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Chip Taylor lets his death grip on the wheel of the Mustang go, his knuckles crack. He jumps in his seat, surprised and semi-disgusted. The wind blowing through the open windows doesn’t do anything to keep his back from sticking to his shirt and his shirt from sticking to his seat. He sighs and rubs his neck. Glancing around, he notices a sign on the right-hand side of the road.</p>
<p>REST STOP - 2 MILES, it says in its official blue and white regalia. Thank God. He passes into the right lane without hitting the blinker; the past fifty miles or so of road had been completely abandoned. There was a car following him a few hours back - the catalyst for his chokehold on the steering wheel - but it went up in steam and was forced to pull onto the shoulder. He hasn’t let go since then.</p>
<p>Soon enough, the exit for the rest stop comes up and Chip pulls in. Completely abandoned. He frowns, then reminds himself that he should be relieved instead of worried.</p>
<p>“You just shot a bunch of people and burned a trailer to the ground and you have sixty-eight thousand dollars in the passenger’s seat,” he says aloud. “You’re <em>fucking</em> fine.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t worry about parking courtesy, opting to pull into a spot close to the little bathroom-convenience-whatever the hell one would call the building at the center of the rest stop. Taking the keys from the ignition, he drops his other hand from the wheel and flexes it. It makes the same satisfying-gross <em>crrrrack!</em> and his nose scrunches up. His head falls against the seat behind him and he sighs.</p>
<p>The wind has turned into a soft, forgiving breeze. Chip turns his face towards it and takes a deep breath in, relishing in it a bit. The sky is gray with clouds not ready to spill rain, choosing only to obscure the sun. He opens his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them, and glances out the back window. Still alone. Good.</p>
<p>A stronger gust of wind shoves its way into the car and it rattles the sixty-eight thousand dollars sitting next to Chip. A hot finger of anxiety presses against the back of his throat. It rustles and flaps around in the air, buried under his clothes. He looks down and realizes that-</p>
<p>“Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck!” He shouts. The lipstick-printed shirt - top - he’s wearing is spattered with blood. He scrambles for the sun visor and tosses aside whatever shit Liza had packed away in there. His jaw drops as he looks at himself. He’s covered in blood, the cigarette burn on his cheek weeping clear goo. He whips around in the seat one more time, searching the parking lot for a sign of human life. Still alone.</p>
<p>“Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay.”</p>
<p>Chip tears through the box, shoving his jeans and shirt under his arms. He kicks open the car door and rushes out of it, carrying his boots. He <em>smak-smaks</em> his way to the building as fast as his frilly pink flip-flops permit. Pushing into the building, he’s greeted with the cool dryness of air conditioning and zero people. Perfect.</p>
<p>The lights in the bathroom are dim and green and grungy when he steps in. The door groans and creaks behind him, setting his teeth on edge. The stalls are battered and scratched and scribbled on, showing just how old this place really was. Chip walks the length of the bathroom twice, checking under each stall for pairs of shoes. Satisfied, he drops his clothes on the equally-gross counter and sighs. He tips his head back and stares at the ceiling, hands cupping the back of his neck. It’s sore, his arms are sore, his lungs are sore; all of him is sore. It thankfully devolved from sharp, stinging pains a somewhat-remembered time ago, where he had to stop sitting with his hand pressed to his ribs for fear of him... coughing them up, he guesses. What sucks about it, though, is that there aren’t specific parts to focus on anymore. Now, it’s all over. It presses against the backs of his eyes, stings his heels, makes his knees creak. </p>
<p>It might be worse.</p>
<p>Chip closes his eyes and presses his knuckles into them. They’re gritty and tear-stained and nasty, but that’s the least of his concern. He opens them and looks at his clothes. A stray hundred is poking out of the mess. He swallows and pulls it out, tossing it onto the counter. He shucks the top and replaces it with his shirt. It makes the tension in his shoulders drop. He steps out of the flip flops and drops his shorts, reaching for his jeans.</p>
<p>“Naturally,” he mumbles when he realizes his boxers are gone. He can’t guess what Monica and those freaks at the trailer did with them. He’d rather not. He rolls his eyes as he shimmies and hops his way back into his pants. Going commando leaves a sort of bitter taste in the back of his mouth, but he can deal for now. He crouches down to lace up his boots and his back cracks. It forces a pained moan from his throat, echoing in the emptiness of the bathroom. When he stands back up, he feels a lot more like himself, more like Chip Taylor, shit-hauler and professional mooch rather than Chip Taylor, robber, accomplice, murderer, and bitch-girlfriend-haver.</p>
<p>When he looks in the mirror, he gulps. The golf club wound on his forehead has dried and scabbed over, obscuring itself in his hair. The burn on his cheek is still oozing. Green halogen lights in the bathroom make him look like a ghost and a zombie combined. They turn the blood on his face brown and he, too, feels sort of... brown. Not shitty, per se; he just defied death and escaped with sixty-eight thousand dollars and dropped said bitch girlfriend. He feels dark, though. Used-up and road-worn and like God couldn’t have given him a worse chance. But the distance between him and the trailer and Liza and the motel cuts through the brackish darkness and gives him something else to look forward to. Technically, he has his whole life ahead of him; why should he waste it?</p>
<p>Chip picks the shorts up off the ground and turns them wrong-way out, revealing the scrubby cotton insides. He turns on the tap and grimaces when it spits out red water. It splatters against the dingy porcelain and he presses his lips together. It runs yellow for a long time before it’s clear. Chip runs the leg of the shorts under the water and drags it across his face, washing away at the various crusts. He dabs at the gash at his hairline and around the burn as gentle as possible. He uses the other leg to clean up under his chin and his neck and behind his ears. When he’s finished, he feels just a touch more like himself. </p>
<p>Chip leaves the bathroom with his lost-and-found outfit under his arm and the hundred in his back pocket. He does another sweep of the building before he steps up to the big map at the center of the room.</p>
<p>“Shit.”</p>
<p>At the top of the map, in big, bodacious letters, it says THE STATE OF MISSOURI.</p>
<p>Chip blames himself for not reading any road signs as he sped away from the burning trailer. He vaguely remembers seeing signs headed to LEXINGTON and CHICAGO pass in the dark. Cursing himself, he drags a finger around the map, landing on the “You are here” star. There aren’t any major cities for hundreds of miles, which puts him in a bit of a bind. If he <em>really</em> wants to disappear, he’d flee to somewhere like New York or Los Angeles or wherever. He doesn’t think the Mustang is gonna hold up for that drive.</p>
<p>Chip drops his hand and shoves it into his pocket. Would it really be that efficient to disappear into a city, though? he wonders. Or, perhaps, would it be better to settle down in some random podunk motel in Buttfuck, Missouri, someplace the cops wouldn’t think about at all?</p>
<p>Chip looks back at the map and puts his finger on the “You are here” star again. He moves it upwards a tick and notes the tiny thread of highway that crosses the interstate. There’s a little spot of blue next to it. A lake.</p>
<p>Chip heaves a sigh and dumps his bloody clothes in a trash bin on his way out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Chip doesn’t touch the radio. He hasn’t touched it since he and Violet got pulled over. Instead, he opens all of the windows in the car, letting the breeze blow his hair back and dry the water on his face. A few raindrops land on the windshield and the air starts smelling like grass clippings. The next sign he sees on the road says three words: WAYCROSS - NEXT EXIT. It puts a small, small smile on his face. He drifts into the right lane and into the exit, letting the speed he’d built up to carry him to the outlet. In the corner of his eye, he spots a McDonald’s sign, and his stomach growls. He turns left.</p>
<p>The cashier looks at him sideways when Chip hands him a hundred. The girl who hands him his Big Mac and Coke gives him a weird glance as he thanks her. He pulls into a parking space and pulls the sandwich out of the bag. It stares up at him in all its greasy, fatty glory and it turns the corner of his mouth up just slightly. Liza hates - <em> hated </em>- McDonald’s. The other corner of his mouth lifts as he takes a bite.</p>
<p>When he’s finished, he uses his slippery fingers to pick up the Coke and down it in a few massive gulps. He drops it in the cupholder and groans, balling up the wrapper and tossing it aside. It lands in the box. He glances at it and another lick of hot, sweaty-palmed fear races down his back.</p>
<p>“Oh, shit,” he hisses. It wasn’t the hundred that made the kid at the window skeptical, it was the <em>massive fucking folder of cash in the passenger’s seat</em>. Chip mutters out a string of <em>fuck fuck fuck fuck</em>s and scrambles to find a place to hide it. He decides on the glove box, seeing as though he can only open and close it with the car key itself. Shoving aside manuals and registrations, he stuffs wad after wad into the compartment. When he’s finished, they look almost comical. Chip glances over them once more and nods to himself, slamming it shut. He takes the keys out of the ignition and locks it. Just to be safe, he jiggles the handle. When it doesn’t budge, he relaxes. He stares at it as he starts the car again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The air carries the smell of rust and something distinctly lake-y. Chip’s lips press together as he takes a deep breath in. It’s so different from Louisiana air, he thinks. It doesn’t sit on your shoulders and weigh you down. No, this breeze pushes up on the soles of your shoes, lifts you into the air, and lays you down on your back. It forces you to relax.</p>
<p>He passes by a set of tiny, dingy-looking cabins, all white with black shutters. A sign out front reads “Helen's Haven” in scrolling, aging script. It sways in the wind. When Chip looks closer, he can see the lake. His shoulders relax. He hasn’t been to the lake in God knows how long.</p>
<p>This could be good.</p>
<p>He continues down the street, glancing at the houses and motels and the dives. Everything here seems to be in a state of disrepair; paint peeling off of siding, concrete cracking, allowing weeds to push through, moss growing on rocks and telephone poles. A good place for hiding sixty-eight thousand dollars.</p>
<p>Something wet and warm slipping down Chip’s forehead breaks his little reverie. He squints as it reaches his eyebrow, raising a hand to wipe it away. His fingers come back red. Gasping, he loses his grip on the steering wheel and the Mustang drifts into the right lane. A car behind him honks and he gasps again, reaching forward and jerking it back. The car behind him revs up and passes him, a middle finger stuck out the driver’s side window. He clicks his tongue and mirrors the gesture. He keeps his hand pressed to his forehead, hoping to staunch the blood before it drips any further.</p>
<p>Without paying much attention, he pulls into a parking lot. Reaching over into his discarded McDonald’s bag, he takes out the courtesy napkins and presses them against the wound. It stings, worse than it did in the rest stop bathroom. It must’ve reopened, scab peeling back and revealing hot, fresh, bloody skin. Well, at least the burn has stopped leaking pus.</p>
<p>Chip leans back in his seat. He wants to close his eyes, yeah, but he knows that even ten seconds of shut-eye would mean spending hours upon hours in this car, sleeping and cramping and bleeding and sweating. He’d look like he’d gotten murdered. Murdered with sixty-eight grand in the glovebox.</p>
<p>He turns around in his seat, looking for anyone staring at him, watching him and the new, semi-fancy car that appeared out of nowhere. He’s in a parking lot, that’s for sure. Cars pull in and out every few moments, dumping their human contents at the foot of the building and swimming down through the aisles. Chip sits up further and looks out the window. Heavyset, sweating women with troupes of equally sweaty, red-faced children following them carrying white plastic bags. Grungy men on a forty-five degree lean carry brown paper bags. He looks up.</p>
<p>“Grocery store,” he murmurs. “Nice.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Chip manages to get into the grocery store without so much as a second glance. He doesn’t bother acknowledging the greeter at the front of the store, grabbing a red plastic basket, and storming off to the first aisle he thinks will be useful. So far, he’s been through the frozen, bread, snack food, baking items, and alcohol sections. He tosses a bag of tater tots, a box of E-L-Fudges, two bags of Cheetos, and a package of Twizzlers in the basket. All foods Liza hates - <em> hated</em>. He takes a case of Natty Light out of the cooler and sticks it under his arm. Liza preferred liquor, straight and hard, something to get you to-the-point drunk. Chip always enjoyed the soupy slowness that beer gives. He needs a bit of that right about now.</p>
<p>Without warning, Chip is in the middle of the feminine hygiene section, tearing open the Twizzlers. He makes desperately uncomfortable eye contact with a blonde-bobbed, middle-aged woman who’s pointing at a box on the shelf. Her - he can only assume it is - daughter is looking at him with horrified, saucer-wide eyes. He clears his throat and sticks a Twizzler into his mouth, then turns on his heel and leaves. Now he's in the medical aisle, facing a battlefield littered with young getting-there junkies and old people riding around in Amigos, taking way too long to look at the blood pressure monitors. He bites down on the Twizzler and chews.</p>
<p>It’s poetry in motion. Chip weaves through the crackheads and geezers with a type of precision and clarity he’s only ever had post-fuck. Everything he remotely thinks he needs is dumped into the basket along with his potato snacks and cheesy puffs. Rubbing alcohol, bandages, Neosporin, gauze, the works - it’s there. He doesn’t even catch a whiff of the sweat coming from the oldies or hear the scratching of coke nails against rash-pocked skin. Maybe it’s the need to sleep. He doesn’t know.</p>
<p>Chip slows his pace from a stern, stiff speed walk to a slow peruse, glancing down the remaining aisles to see if he might need anything there. When he sees the skinny, greasy kid hanging in the back corner, leaning against a kiosk of sorts, he narrows his eyes. Someone in front of it is poking and prodding at several different plastic packages, picking them off the hangers and turning them over. When the guy does stand up and hand it to the kid, he realizes he's looking at phones. The case of beer under his arm slips a bit and he catches it with his other hand. </p>
<p>It takes a bit for the guy at the counter to finish up. There were a lot of squinting and unsure looks and moaned answers and distant replies to every question and remark asked or made. When he finishes, he pulls up his belt and walks towards Chip, who doesn’t nod back when he tips his big-ass cowboy hat at him. He thinks the kid can feel him as he approaches, leaning out to look into the store and diving back when he sees the thunderous look on his face. Chip skids to a stop in front of him, slams the case of beer down onto the counter, and looks the kid in the eye.</p>
<p>“I need a phone.”</p>
<p>The kid blinks and gulps. Raising a bracelet-bound, pale wrist to his face, he wipes a strand of lank hair out of his eye.</p>
<p>“P-pick one, dude,” the replies, fingers twitching. Chip rolls his eyes and steps back from the counter, basket in his hand swinging wildly. He isn’t as thorough as the rhinestone cowboy, picking the one closest to his hand, tossing it on the counter. The kid snatches it up and away from him, stealing nervous glances while he taps on the cash register keyboard.</p>
<p>“That-s thirt- thirty-five dollars and ninety-” he starts, but Chip is already slapping a hundred onto the counter.</p>
<p>“Load the rest of the cash onto the phone for the-” he waves his hand around, frowning deeply. “- minutes or whatever the hell.”</p>
<p>He takes it from his hand and opens the register drawer. Chip’s heel starts to tap at the linoleum, his eyes looking up at the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. The odd wave of energy you get when you start getting tired is taking over, making all of his movements sharp and forceful while his mind starts to shut down. A song he sort of recognizes starts playing on the speakers and he focuses on that, tapping his fingers against the leg of his jeans to the beat.</p>
<p>“Here you are,” the kid says. He holds out the little flip phone to Chip, making sure to stay arm’s length away. He snatches it from his hand and grunts a “thanks” before leaving the aisle and searching for the checkout.</p>
<p>When Chip sees her, it’s as if it was a movie scene. The moment his eyes land on her, the song matches up and time slows and-</p>
<p>
  <em> Auburn hair with tawny eyes. </em>
</p>
<p>The Natty Light almost slips from his grip again as his mind grinds to a halt. She’s handing someone their receipt when she notices him standing a few feet away. A long, soft-looking hand comes up and brushes a lock of dark hair behind her shoulder, off her forest-green polo. She uses her other hand to gesture him over, wide, thin lips smiling gently. Chip doesn’t think he can move but he does, floating over on silent feet and setting his stuff down on the conveyor. Her lips move and he watches them, jaw dropping open a little.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Huh?” Her confused reply snaps him out of his trance. The manicured eyebrows that rest above her golden-brown eyes crumple and Chip tries not to drop to his watery knees there and then.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what you said, sorry,” Chip says, trying to memorize her face as fast as he can. She watches him as his items roll down the belt in front of her.</p>
<p>“I said, “great song, huh?””</p>
<p>Chip glances away from her, looking for the speakers in the ceiling.</p>
<p>“Yeah. I like it.”</p>
<p>He swallows. She lets out a little snort from her pointed, softly freckled nose. Mindlessly, he pulls his wallet back out and thumbs his ID out of its slot, watching her as she works on his groceries. Her fingers just barely brush his as she takes his card. Her eyes narrow as she inspects it, lips moving as she reads the letters and numbers to herself, = running his items across the scanner and dropping them into the bags. Finished, she leans back and hands his open package of Twizzlers to him over the partition.</p>
<p>“Thirty-nine seventy-two is your total,” she says, looking at the register screen. Chip studies the downward slope of her jaw, finishing off in a sharp chin. She’s wearing tiny gold hoop earrings, hugging close to the lobe. Her neck is long and pale and soft-looking. Everything about her is soft-looking.</p>
<p>He pulls out another hundred and offers it to her. When she takes it from him, she runs her fingers over it, studying it.</p>
<p>“Must be one of those new ones, huh?” She asks. He doesn’t respond.</p>
<p>When she lifts it up to the ceiling to inspect it further, a canine flashes out and presses down on the pillow of her lip. It shakes Chip to the core. She turns the bill over in her hand and, satisfied, slides it into the drawer, drawing up his change.</p>
<p>“Sixty twenty-eight is your change,” she says. Chip holds his hand out and she lays the cash out in it so gently he doesn’t think he even felt it. The change bounces against itself and threatens to slide out, but she slides her hand under his and grabs the runaway penny, replacing it. There’s a plastic jar sitting on the partition with a strip of paper that says “LINDSAY’S ARMY” on it in blue and orange Sharpie letters. He dumps the twenty-eight cents into it and the girl lights up, looking at it.</p>
<p>“Aw,” she coos. “Thanks.”</p>
<p>It sends a thrill down his spine.</p>
<p>“No problem, yeah,” he mutters. He gives her a little wave as he leaves the line and she gives one back, wiggling her long fingers at him. Another family steps up behind him and he glances over his shoulder at her one more time. She runs a hand through her hair and he turns back around.</p>
<p>This is gonna be good, he thinks. This is gonna be really good.</p>
<p>What he doesn’t notice, though, is the gold band that wraps around her ring finger. </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. new person, same old mistakes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi! another chapter for your reading pleasure! this chapter is from anna's perspective, which is gonna set the pattern for the rest of the fic. i hope you like her bc she's my bebe. enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been five days since Anna saw the new guy at the store. New guy? Or would it be <em>handsome stranger</em>? The cliche makes her sneer around her toothbrush. Yes, he was handsome, but this wasn’t some romance novel. Out of all the women in town, she’d be the last one to be swept off her feet by a <em>handsome stranger</em>. She leans down and spits.</p><p>“I’m off, babe,” Will says. He walks into the bathroom holding a pair of white tube socks, still shirtless, and gives her a kiss on the cheek. She leans into it and smiles. He matches her grin, big blue eyes fluttering. As he walks away, she turns back to the sink and starts rinsing her mouth. <em>Handsome stranger</em> her ass; Will is hot enough.</p><p>Anna tugs at the hem of her skirt as she walks into the kitchen. Rifling through the spice cabinet above the stove, she pulls out a jug of gummy vitamins and fishes two out. They stick to her fingers and she licks it away, grimacing at the texture. On the wall, the cat clock she’d pestered Will into installing reads 7:34. She has sixteen minutes to get to work or Jermaine is gonna be up her ass again. For what reason, she doesn’t know; she hasn’t been late once in five years. Maybe her getting to the store only ten minutes before opening gives him less time to stare at her legs. She replaces the vitamins, grabs her purse from the coat tree in the foyer, and exits the house.</p><p>The August sun is blinding against the surface of Willis Lake. It’s a Saturday, which means it’s busy. Anna blindly searches for a cassette as she cruises down the main drag in her powder blue El Camino, wind tossing her hair around. Woven into Prince’s falsetto is the whine of waverunners and the sound of artificially-driven waves hitting docks and floodwalls. When she stops at a four-way, she waves across a group of kids, all of them riding bikes or scooters, faces dripping with sweat. She smiles at them. They wave back, 'cause the girl in the blue car gives out Bomb Pops on the Fourth.</p><p>When Anna pulls into the lot behind the E.J. Hurst Market, she recognizes the cars there: a nicely-aged Station Wagon, dropping off the slimy boy that works the electronics section; a black Beemer from the '90s, looking worse for wear; an annoying-as-hell yellow Charger with big chromed-out wheels. Its owner leans against the trunk, feeling up some nineteen-year-old. For a general manager at a regional chain grocery store, Jermaine Willis is doing a little <em> too </em>good. Anna checks twice that the El Camino is locked and looks away as Jermaine's fingers dig hard into the girl's sides.</p><p>In her mind, Anna cries<em> He'll get you! They always get you! With their big car and fat wallet! They get you! </em> like some crooked-fingered seer crowing about the ides of March. She checks the door of the El Camino again, just to be sure.</p><p> </p><p>Inside the store, the air conditioning makes her lungs feel dry and brittle. Anna punches in and opens her locker, fishing a granola bar out of the box she keeps there and tears into it. The communal fridge in the break room houses cold bottles of water and she nabs one, hurrying before anyone notices she restocked it last night.</p><p>Five minutes before opening, Anna makes her way to the front of the store and checks the register she's on today. A few other cashiers sidle up to their spots, all wearing the same customary forest-green polo. Aimee, a run-down widow with a permanent carpal tunnel ache takes her spot behind the counter next to Anna's. She waves her braced hand and Anna waves back.</p><p>"'Member to fill your jar up a little bit, hun," Aimee says, pointing at the empty LINDSAY'S ARMY jar next to the card reader.</p><p>"Right, thanks."</p><p>Anna dips into the cash register, pulling out the most rumpled bills and dirtiest coins and tosses about twenty bucks' worth into a plastic canister. The action makes Anna's cheeks sting and she looks down at her white sneakers, toying with her fingers.</p><p>"Mornin', Aimee," someone says. Anna looks up; it's Jermaine. She gulps and tries to avert her gaze as fast as possible, but he's caught on to her glance and his smile grows sharky. He holds onto his belt buckle as he saunters over to her. "Mornin', Anna."</p><p>Anna presses her lips together in a tight smile and nods at him, trying not to give Jermaine the time of day. Since he's manager, he doesn't wear the uniform of khaki bottoms, white shoes, and the company polo. He steps around in massive jeans and once-white-now-brown Nikes, topping it all off with an equally massive dark green Lacoste polo. He wears it completely unbuttoned; he's suggested a few times that Anna should follow suit.</p><p>"Aww, what's wrong, sweet pea?" Jermaine teases, greasy face closing in on hers. Smelling his first cigarette of the day, Anna backs away and starts messing with the cash register.</p><p>"The register's near always broken, Jermaine," she says, tapping around on the keypad.</p><p>Jermaine takes personal offense in its impotence, straightening from his customary slouch and raising slitted eyebrows at her.</p><p>"What would you like me to do about it, honey?"</p><p>"Stop dishing the safe contents out to your teenage hooker and pay for new ones." She mutters it so softly, lips barely moving, that it doesn't register with him. But, perceptive bastard he is, he can tell she's thinking.</p><p>"What's that?"</p><p>Jermaine leans in again, even closer this time. Anna looks at him from the corner of his eye and shrugs.</p><p>"Didn't say anything."</p><p>"Really?"</p><p>Anna can feel her cheeks start to heat up and she looks down at her watch. 8:01.</p><p>"Look, it's opening time-" she offers him her wrist and he squints at it. "You should open the doors."</p><p>Jermaine lets out a scoff and finally exits her personal space. Watching her as he goes, he walks towards the big glass doors and produces a key from the abyss that is his back jeans pocket. The winos and eager soccer moms gather in front of the entrance, watching him as he fiddles with the lock. When they open, Jermaine looks at her over his shoulder. His brown eyes are suddenly black with... what? Lust? Rage? Annoyance? It doesn't shock Anna. This isn't the first time someone's looked at her that way.</p><p> </p><p>After her lunch break, Anna returns to her register to find someone waiting there for her. Her lips split into a toothy smile and she skips over, hair bouncing. Will turns on his heel and matches her grin, shoving his hands into his pockets.</p><p>"What can I do ya for, sir?" She says, tapping her fingers against the metal counter. Will laughs and shakes his head. Looking back at the nonexistent line, he steps over and starts perusing the lineup of candy and gum on the racks.</p><p>"Well, I was in the mood for something sweet," Will says, tapping a finger to his lips. His blue eyes light up when he spots something and before Anna knows, a Three Musketeers is dropped onto the conveyor. "Probably was thinking after my wife."</p><p>The cheesy statement makes Anna giggle as she grabs the candy bar from the belt and rings it up. As the computer mulls over the purchase, she spins the ring on her finger with her thumb.</p><p>"If you're still nervous about losing it, babe-" Will starts, but Anna reaches over and presses a finger to his lips to stop him.</p><p>"Hey, I'm <em>fine</em>, Will," she says, shaking her head. His smile softens, then drops.</p><p>"Just thought five years would be enough to get used to it."</p><p>A finger of unease trails its way down Anna's spine. It forces her hand away from his mouth and into her hair. Her thumb spins her ring faster. She looks at the register.</p><p>A handsome stranger sounds kinda nice right about now.</p><p>"One twenty-nine, babe," she murmurs. "You going again soon?"</p><p>Will pulls his wallet out of his pocket and sighs. "Yeah."</p><p>"How long?" She takes the five from his hand and the register drawer dings open.</p><p>"Couple'a days. Not too long."</p><p>Anna feels Aimee's gaze digging into the side of her head. When she sneaks a glance, she raises her eyebrows and turns a page in her magazine.</p><p>"Where are y'all off to, now?" She hands Will his change and he dumps it into the LINDSAY'S ARMY bucket.</p><p>"Kansas City," he replies, putting his wallet away.</p><p>"Further than last time."</p><p>"Yep."</p><p>The air around the two of them turns as stale as the conversation. Oh, Will, to be married to you is to be married to an on-off switch. At that moment, she can feel the good times slip away from them, same with his interest in her. She watches him as he tears into his Three Musketeers. He's wearing his gray Corvette t-shirt and his dark jeans. She hasn't washed either one of those at their house in months. She just hopes whatever girl he's gonna be in soon knows better than to let him string her along. She knows, though, that she's probably just like she was, years younger and still tight and wowed by the flash of the chrome on his truck. <em> Beware the ides of March! </em></p><p>Anna shoves the thought aside as he finishes off the bar. She holds out her palm and Will shoves the crushed wrapper into it. Trashing it under the counter, she looks around the store. A disgruntled-looking boozer starts shuffling her way and she sucks in a breath.</p><p>"Someone's on their way over, babe," she says, hoping to rush him along. Will's blue eyes focus back on her and she offers him a withering smile. He doesn't return the favor, instead opting to lean over and pressing a stern, dry kiss to her lips. Whatever. If they're gonna be between some dumbass' legs within the hour... just- whatever.</p><p>Will walks away without looking back at her. Unlike Jermaine, he spares her the half-horny, half-bloodthirsty glance and blunders through the automatic doors. The roar of the V8 in his F-150 is obnoxious and he peels out. A red Mustang slips into the space he occupied. </p><p>"Y'ain't got the good shit no more," the trudging alcoholic says as he slams down a bottle of Maker's Mark. Anna flinches and turns to him. She doesn't bother giving him a <em> how are you, having a good day, how's the kids </em> treatment. The drinkers always enjoy the easiest route back to the bottle; it’s best to not hassle them. Without IDing him, she takes his trashed bills and linty coins and tells him to have a nice day. He snatches the brown paper bag away from her and trudges towards the doors, still muttering about the <em> good shit, n'ain't have it, God fuckin' dammit. </em></p><p>On his way out, the man fiddles with his bottle, fighting with the shrink-wrap covering the cap. He doesn't notice the fact that he's walking directly into another man, but when they collide-</p><p>"Hey, fuck you!" he shouts.</p><p>Anna looks up and gasps. Aimee hears the commotion and looks up, too. Handsome Stranger, looking better-rested and less scabby, stumbles out of his drunk path, holding up a defensive hand. Anna can't stop it before the gears in her head start working double-time, picking out and imagining little scenarios where, <em> oops! I can't believe I'm so clumsy and dropped all these cans, come closer so you can help me and maybe grab a peek down my top</em>. She watches him as he starts towards the frozen foods section, weaving between greeting cards and wire baskets of fluorescent stuffed animals.</p><p>Anna forces herself to stop thinking before she can figure out some random way to get his attention and an even weirder approach to getting his pants off. He doesn't seem like he wants to be fucked with based on the one interaction they've had. She plays with the buttons of her polo unconsciously, a lick of shame curling up her spine and settling in her belly. But, hey, what the hell, right? If Will gets to have fun and catches zero flak for it, she can too. She opens the second button on her polo and waits.</p><p> </p><p>All Anna can think of when Handsome Stranger reappears in her vision is <em>the ides of March! The ides of March!</em> The shame in her stomach travels up to her heart and it gets a little hard to breathe. He stops at the mouth of the first aid aisle, clutching a box of Band-Aids to his chest as he searches for something. Anna looks down at herself, at her crossed legs and unbuttoned top and starts twirling her ring again. A bitter taste fills her mouth and her brows draw together. She's about to fix her shirt when a pair of boots stop before her counter and items are unloaded onto the conveyor.</p><p>"Find everything you need?" she asks, semi-removed.</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>Lo and behold, Handsome Stranger has stopped at her register again. Anna bites back a giddy smile as she starts ringing up his stuff: Band-Aids, more tater tots, more Twizzlers. She sneaks a peek at his face and, God is she glad she did. It might be the harsh light of the store doing some of the work, but Handsome Stranger is <em>all </em>angles. Jaw sharp enough to cut her in half, cheekbones high and pretty. His nose is small and almost girly but it’s endearing, something a grandma would squeal at. It cuts through the harshness of him, same with his Princess Peach lips. They're red and bitten up and she can imagine that he would be so much more fun in a makeout than Will.</p><p>"Nine forty-five is your total," Anna says, breaking out of her creeper trance. When she looks up at him, he's already staring at her with his honey-brown eyes. Her mouth drops open just a touch and the shame in her stomach is replaced with relief and something a lot hotter. He <em>wants </em>her. She can feel it, pent-up in the back of her throat, in her fingertips, in her toes. His eyes bore into hers and they're kind and searching at the same time, digging into hers, trying to find reciprocity.</p><p>She hopes one undone button conveys it.</p><p>Handsome Stranger produces another hundred from his wallet, surprising Anna. She takes it gingerly, turning it over in her hands and holding it up towards the ceiling. She bites into her bottom lip as she searches, half out of habit and half out of the need for him to think she's worth an iota of his sexual attention because honestly, fuck Will. She shall have her cake, and she shall eat it, too.</p><p>"High roller out here with his hundreds," she says, chuckling. She glances at Handsome Stranger and he's suddenly different. Gone is the needy look he shot her down with earlier; his face is now occupied with deep creases in his forehead, his lips set into a worrying line. Cringing, Anna opens the cash register and searches for his change. "Ninety forty-five is your change."</p><p>Handsome Stranger takes it and murmurs a "thank you" while dumping everything but his fifty into the jar. </p><p>"Jesus fuck- oh!" Anna starts, catching herself. She slaps her palm against her mouth, eyes widening. Handsome Stranger seems to get a tiny kick out of it, a half-smile cracking his stony expression. "Sorry."</p><p>They stand there in silence as Anna bags his items. She can feel his gaze leave and return to her, vacillating between disinterest and complete rapture. It should be embarrassing, you know, she's married to the wealthiest guy in town who just so happens to be the hottest and she's getting off on some total stranger looking at her like a Michelangelo or something. She holds out his groceries and manages to make eye contact.</p><p>"Have a good one."</p><p>"You too," Handsome Stranger says. It makes her smile and her cheeks warm up like her belly. Handsome Stranger takes his bag from her hand and their fingers brush. Hand to God, Anna can feel little sparks dance across her fingertips and race down her arm back towards her chest. If he felt it, she has no clue; he doesn't look back at her when he turns away. She watches him start towards the door, but something catches his attention. The bulletin board.</p><p>Oh, yes, the bulletin board, home of years-old LOST DOG signs and tear-off boat repair flyers. Jerome charged her with upkeep, but seeing as though nothing ever happens in Waycross, she doesn't put anything new on it. Actually, she takes the already-there papers and shuffles them around, puts a newspaper clipping about the high school football team or a wanted notice from the sheriff's office if it occurs to her. The regional manager seems pleased enough with it, tells her to keep up the good work. She deserves a raise, she thinks, but that would involve getting on her knees and sucking Jermaine's swampy dick. No way.</p><p>Relenting to another period of boredom before the four-to-eleven shift comes in, Anna leans up against her register and tries not to stare at the back of Handsome Stranger's head. She glances over at Aimee, who, in a rare moment, is not buried in a tabloid. Instead, she's waving at Anna, trying to get her attention. She catches on and quirks an eyebrow at Aimee.</p><p>"Go talk to him!" she mouths.</p><p>"What?" Anna mouths back. "No."</p><p>Aimee gives her a look that reminds her of an exasperated mother trying to get her kid to talk to someone new at the playground. "Just do it! Go!"</p><p>Anna's cheeks flare up again, turning her peachy red. Aimee's eyes widen with every second she spends sitting at her register, egging her on. She bites her lip and looks at Handsome Stranger, who seems very interested in the adventures of the girl's soccer team.</p><p>"Really?" she asks Aimee. Aimee gives her a prim nod, lips pressed together. Her braced hand comes up and waves her off towards him. Anna rolls her eyes and smiles. For all the pity she takes on Aimee, she's a good coworker. Maybe she'll add her to the Christmas card list.</p><p>It uses up the last dregs of courage Anna has left in her body, but she pushes off her register and steps over to the bulletin board. Handsome Stranger is leaned over, squinting at an ad for Al's Boat Storage Service. When he straightens up, she swallows.</p><p>"Fascinating, isn't it?" She asks. Handsome Stranger startles when he realizes she's standing next to him.</p><p>"Jesus," he gasps.</p><p>"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."</p><p>"You're alright."</p><p>The silence they sink into is comfortable. Anna can feel Aimee staring at the two of them yards away, lost in her little world. Anna cocks her head when she finds something she hadn't posted herself on the board.</p><p>"It isn't fascinating at all, really," Handsome Stranger says as Anna reaches for the aberrant paper. Turning to look at him, she drops the paper from between her fingers and sighs.</p><p>"Well, if I could I'd put up the minutes from the weekly Klan meetings, but..." she trails off. Handsome Stranger's eyes widen and his jaw drops and she can't help the grin that breaks her serious facade. She laughs a bit and Handsome Stranger relaxes, realizing it was a joke.</p><p>"Probably be more fun than the five flyers for the same storage place, right?"</p><p>Anna hums in agreement, clasping her arms behind her back. Just as the silence falls back into its comfortable space between the two of them, Anna remembers to do the thing she's been thinking about since he left her register.</p><p>"I'm Anna Robinson," she says, holding out her hand. Handsome Stranger looks down at her and meets her handshake.</p><p>"Chip Taylor."</p><p>Chip, huh? Not really what she was expecting but not disappointing, either.</p><p>"There aren't any Klan meetings here, by the way," she says. Chip hums.</p><p>"Nice to know," he says. "I'm planning on staying a while."</p><p>That piques her interest. Eyebrows raising, Anna lifts her chin and looks at the two-year-old varsity baseball roster. "Where are you holed up?"</p><p>"Helen's Haven," Chip replies, and Anna scoffs.</p><p>"That little hellhole? Can’t imagine Helen making that nice of a house."</p><p>"It's more of a shithole than a hellhole."</p><p>Anna gasps out a little laugh and Chip joins in, offering her the widest smile she's seen from him yet. Their eyes meet and, while the rest of him is laughing, he looks at her with the same concoction of forlorn longing and heady need that he'd given her just ten minutes ago. It brings back that warm, fuzzy feeling she had then, lifting her spirit a few inches off the ground.</p><p>Just like that, she's gone. Carried off by the first notion of attraction from a complete stranger. With Will, it'd taken a second for her to cave. Her father shaped her into a tough nut, but smooth-talking and world-promising William Robinson was just enough for her to crumble. Chip, though, he was odd. He wasn't like Jermaine, who, if given the chance to get into her pants, would fuck her a maximum of five times, then drop her for a freshly-graduated blondie who talks too loud when she's drunk. He wasn't like Will, either, who vacillated so quickly between being completely in love with her and hating her guts and the ground she stands on that it makes her head ache and tear ducts run dry.</p><p>Her conclusion? Chip Taylor would be the best mistake she'd ever made.</p><p>Without noticing it, Anna notices that Chip is now fingering the new paper she'd spotted when they'd started talking. He reaches up with a long-fingered hand and pulls out the pushpin holding it in.</p><p>"Got a pen I can borrow?"</p><p>Anna looks at the paper.</p><p>E.J. HURST MARKETS AND DEPARTMENT STORES - JOB APPLICATION</p><p>Her jaw drops and she has to curl her toes to stop the girly scream that would've erupted from her mouth.</p><p>"Sure do."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter's song is "New Person, Same Old Mistakes" by Tame Impala (or you could indulge in the Rihanna version, which is very good as well). it's soupy and slow and the lyrics reflect what's going on with anna's feelings right now. if you'd like to check it out, i have a playlist on spotify (username: gym_class_heroine -&gt; folder: "the writing center" -&gt; playlist: "mrs. robinson"). kudos and comments are always appreciated!</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. how much more</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>yay! back with another chapter after a bit of a break! now that i'm settled into my school schedule you'll be seeing a bit more from me, meaning quicker updates. i've also got a little sum-sum in my witches' pot right now that i'll announce after we get further into the story... happy reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chip was never one for first impressions. He thought that if he was to meet someone, they deserve <span class="complexword">multiple </span>chances to prove themselves.</p><p></p><div class="">
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    <p>This is not the case with Jermaine Willis.</p>
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    <p>Chip tries not to shiver under the punishing wind coming from the AC unit hung on the office wall. He glances at it. The strings of silvery vellum hung on it blow straight outwards. Figures.</p>
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    <p>“You worked for a septic emptying company?” Jermaine asks <span class="complexword">all of </span>a sudden. “Yeah,” Chip says. “Yeah, I did.”</p>
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    <p>Jermaine shakes his head and chuckles. “Shit - <em> <span class="complexword">literally</span> </em>.” He chuckles again. Chip presses his lips together and snorts. Turning the resume over in his hands, Jermaine considers something.</p>
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    <p>“You seen Anna, right?"</p>
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    <p>Embarrassment sets itself alight in his chest. He rubs the back of his neck with the hand he isn’t sitting on.</p>
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  <p>“Yeah.”</p>
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  <p>Jermaine laughs again, this time a loud, barking guffaw. He drops the paper and leans back in the big chair he’s in.</p>
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  <p>“Yeah, you have,” he agrees. “Ain’t nobody not seen Anna Robinson, huh. Tight girl right there. Real tight.”</p>
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  <p>Chip’s cheeks flash red and he swallows. Yeah, okay, so he thought after her in… that way, but Jermaine’s words made his stomach turn. At the very least he can get off thinking about her and feel bad about it.</p>
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  <p>The next few minutes elapse in silence. Jermaine studies Chip’s resume, <span class="adverb"> occasionally </span>leaning in and squinting at a word. He sucks on his teeth and nods.</p>
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  <p>“Well, can y’put a box on a shelf?”</p>
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  <p>Chip looks away from the AC unit and the silver vellum. “Yeah.”</p>
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  <p>“Can you read a label?”</p>
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  <p>“Yeah.”</p>
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  <p>“Do you know what a handcart is?”</p>
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  <p>“Yep.”</p>
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  <p>Jermaine drops the resume for the final time, heaving himself and his massive pants out of the chair. Chip stands with him, brushing his hands off on his thighs. Jermaine holds his hand out and Chip takes it.</p>
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  <p>“Welcome to E.J. Hurst Market, Chip.”</p>
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    <p>“Dammit.”</p>
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    <p>Chip turns his head to look at Anna. She frowns down at her bleeding thumb and picks at it with her index finger, hissing. She sticks her tongue out and licks over it. Chip blanches. The grip on his can of Coke falters a little bit. <span class="qualifier"> Just </span>the humidity, <span class="qualifier"> just </span>the humidity.</p>
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    <p>When she notices him looking at her, Anna blushes and takes her thumb out of her mouth.</p>
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    <p>“<span class="adverb">Newly </span>motivated, I guess,” she says, pointing at the bulletin board. She’s holding a few pieces of fluorescent paper, each sandwiched between two fingers. In the other hand, she’s holding a pushpin, <span class="adverb"> probably </span>what’s caused her pain. Chip pushes off the wall and takes a sip of his drink.</p>
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    <p>“You should <span class="adverb">really </span>get that promotion you were talking about, though,” he says.</p>
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    <p>“What do you mean?”</p>
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    <p>“This-” he gestures to the board and all its recycled news. “- it’s art.”</p>
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    <p>Anna scoffs, shaking her head. “Didn’t I tell you that about Jermaine and his making my entire life hell scheme?”</p>
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    <p>Chip <em>hm</em>s and taps the sides of his can. She did, yesterday during break. She talked him through the story with big, animated sweeps of her hands and wide eyes. He didn’t stop smiling. It brings a smile to his face to remember the moment and he raises his Coke to his lips to hide it.</p>
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    <p>Anna mutters something under her breath as she pins up a bright blue flyer for Al’s Boat Storage. That’s where Anna puts her boat in the winter. Chip likes that he knows that. He likes having the little bits of information about her. Even if she wouldn’t open up all the way to him - because God knows he won’t open all the way up to her - it was still a comfort. It’s comfortable knowing someone.</p>
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    <p>The soda makes Chip’s teeth gummy. He chews his cheek as he watches more candy-colored papers are stuck to the pockmarked cork. <span class="adverb"> Suddenly</span>, he doesn’t taste sugar anymore, <span class="qualifier"> just </span>the metal of the can and his blood. He releases his cheek from his teeth’s grasp. Soothing the bite with his tongue, he can’t help but turn his thoughts to Violet. <span class="veryhardreadability"> This morning he’d woken in a cold sweat, panting like he’d run for miles; he’d dreamt that Violet was standing over his bed, staring into his eyes, as her neck split in two and her blood sprayed across him and onto the scratchy sheets</span>.</p>
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    <p>“I like her."</p>
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    <p>Chip jerks and swings his head around, eyes wide.</p>
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    <p>“Whoa, there,” Anna says. She’s holding a hand out to him, half keeping him away, half offering support. “You good?”</p>
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    <p>Chip’s heart is thundering in his chest. He didn’t believe in ghosts because why the fuck would he, but hearing Violet’s voice <span class="adverb">nearly </span>made him shit his pants. If he’s <span class="passivevoice">being haunted </span>-</p>
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    <p>“Chip?”</p>
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    <p>He looks at Anna. She’s closer now, closer than she ever has been. He can smell lilacs in her perfume. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple and he scrambles for an answer.</p>
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    <p>“Thought someone called my name,” he finally says, still breathless. Anna shakes her head and he smells peppermint. Is he hallucinating? Is that one of the smells that you smell before you have a stroke? He presses his lips together and grips his can tighter.</p>
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    <p>“No…” she drifts off. “You sure you’re alright?”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Y-yeah, yeah, I’m alright, yeah.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Goddamn, it’s hot in here. Chip takes a drink of his soda. Anna gives him another look, eyes narrowed. He hates seeing those eyebrows furrowed, he decides. He looks at the clock hanging above the bulletin board and clears his throat.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“I should <span class="adverb"> probably </span> get back to work."</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Anna looks up at the clock, too.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Yeah, you’re about to get off break, right?”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Uh-huh.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Well,” Anna says, putting one last pin in the board and stepping back. “So am I.” She closes the little box of pushpins and crumples the few stray papers in her hand. <span class="hardreadability"> Chip’s legs feel like jello; he’s not sure how he’s gonna get to the break room and back in time to - aw, whatever the hell he’s supposed to do now</span>. Stock shelves, he guesses.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Ready to go?”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>In a flash, she’s standing next to him. He smells peppermint again. Her shampoo. <span class="hardreadability"> His heart stops pressing against his ribcage, settling to beat </span><span class="adverb">restlessly </span><span class="hardreadability">in its proper place</span>.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Sure.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>She gives him a half-smile and the two of them start walking together. They do so in silence, which feels good, normal even. He can hear Violet’s voice echo back at him and he isn’t scared of it this time. He takes a look at her. She has an extra button undone on her polo.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Huh.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He opens the break room door for her.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p> </p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip tugs on the collar of his forest green polo. Somehow, even when he’s halfway in a dairy cooler, the stockroom is hot. Not a normal I’ll-grab-a-glass-of-lemonade-after-this hot but a Jesus-Mary-Joseph-it’s-hot hot. He finishes loading the last gallons of skim milk onto the rack and tosses the pallet onto the stack. Another stockboy, Nelson, is taking his gloves off and wiping his forehead with his palm.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Damn,” he curses, shoving the gloves into his back pocket. Chip sighs in agreement. <span class="hardreadability"> Behind the two of them, the EMPLOYEES ONLY, THANK YOU door swings open, and in comes the greasy kid that works the electronics section</span>. Chip hears Nelson scoff.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“What?” The kid says, peering at them from behind a curtain of manky hair. “Paid Anna.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip doesn’t say anything. Instead, he looks down at his boots, chewing his cheek. <span class="veryhardreadability"> The kid grabs a half-gallon of chocolate milk from a rack and cracks it open in front of Chip and Nelson, downing a quarter of it before he gasps and runs a forearm over his lips</span>. He slinks out the same way he came, drinking as he goes.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Asshole,” Nelson says, brushing a few mousy curls from his eyes. “Lunchtime?”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip looks at the clock hanging above the door.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Yep.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Lunchtime for Chip is a sad affair. <span class="hardreadability"> Nelson, aided by a fussy mother, feasts on a tuna salad sandwich, carrots, and ranch while Chip picks at a sad bag of stale Roald Golds</span>. Jermaine stomps into the room, lugging his jeans with him. Nelson leans in towards Chip, wiggling a finger to signal him to do the same.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“If he wore ‘em any lower, he’d be dragging them behind his feet,” he whispers. Chip snorts and a bit of rock salt hits the back of his throat and makes him cough.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“‘Sup,” Jermaine says. He slumps over to the fridge next to the table, bending down to pull out a bottle of water. If Chip turned around, he’d be getting a mouthful of plaid boxers. “You seen Anna today?”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip twitches. “Sure have,” he says, poking his finger in and out of a pretzel.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“I know you have ‘cause god-damn. Hottest girl in town, Anna. Too bad she’s fuckin’ married.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip’s world tips on an axis he doesn’t even think exists. The already flavorless pretzels lose even more flavor and he gulps. Nelson frowns at him. Jermaine says something else, but his ears are ringing so loud he can’t understand him. He hikes up his big jeans and slinks into the manager’s office.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Anna <span class="passivevoice">is married</span>. Married. Married. Married. Jesus, she’s <em>married</em>. To someone much better than him, for sure. No pretty girl like Anna would dig around at the bottom of the barrel for someone like Chip. His knees turn watery and he feels like he could fall through the floor at any moment. Nelson looks up from his sandwich.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“You good?”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip swallows and his eye twitches. “Yep.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Nelson eyes him for a second more and looks between their lunches. Chip closes his eyes and leans an arm against the table, pressing two fingers to his temple. <span class="hardreadability"> There’s a shuffle in front of him and he opens his eyes to see a green Tupperware container of baby carrots under his nose</span>. Nelson gives him a mousy smile when he looks up at him.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Married.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip takes a carrot and bites down.</p>
    <p> </p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>The next time Chip comes face-to-face with Anna, he blushes. Not because he had to take an icy shower this morning - well, not <span class="adverb">entirely </span> - but because she’s married. The Big M. Ball and chain. Holy matrimony.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Hi, Chip.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>He can feel his ears go red when he looks up from his box of canned green beans. Anna towers over him, lanky, soft legs on full display. Any closer to her and he would’ve gotten a straight shot up her skirt.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Hey,” he answers back, not sure of what else he should say. Anna bites her bottom lip and shifts from one white-sneakered foot to the other.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Need some help?”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip looks back at the box.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Um…” he starts, but she’s already crouching down next to him. Her hair fans out and falls back into place, sending a gust of sweet perfume into his face. <span class="hardreadability"> His heart starts pounding against his chest and he feels like he’s in a cartoon, pupils turning into hearts and jaw dropping-</span></p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Married.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip clears his throat and pushes the box between the two of them. Anna picks up a can and sets it on the shelf.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Helen’s Haven getting any more comfy?”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Oh, thank God. Chip chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m not sure Helen designed it to be comfy.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Ha! <span class="hardreadability"> When I was little, all the older kids told us that if she found you sneaking around after dark she’d drag you into her cabin and make you sleep on beds of nails."</span></p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“You could call popped springs nails, <span class="qualifier"> maybe </span>.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip looks up at her and she’s grinning. Those sharp canines gleam in the white light of the aisle and he wonders what they’d feel like against his neck.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Married.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip bites his tongue so he doesn’t start swearing. He picks up a couple of cans and starts loading them onto the shelf, a bit more forceful this time. Anna’s gaze bores into the side of his face as he continues working, each can rattling against the metal.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Hey,” Anna says.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“What?” Chip snaps, turning to her. She flinches a bit, rocking back on her knees. Her eyes go wide and he goes from being <span class="adverb">incredibly </span>sorry for himself to furious in a second.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Jesus.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“No- <em>shit</em>,” Chip sighs, setting down a can and running his hands through his hair. Anna leans back in a little bit, ducking down to search his face. He turns away from her, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“<span class="qualifier"> Maybe </span> it is the bed.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip lets himself laugh at her joke, still rubbing at his eyes. The pressure turns sour, callused palms chafing against tender cheeks.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Hey, hey,” Anna says, laying a hand on his shoulder. Chip looks up. She’s even closer now, close enough to tell that no light can pass through her brown eyes. “I’m fine, happens all the time.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“No, I’m sorry,” Chip says, shaking his head. <span class="hardreadability"> He tries not to ignore the <em>happens all the time </em>bit but it lingers in the air, hangs around him like perfume hangs around her</span>. She tosses a hank of hair behind her shoulder.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="hardreadability"> “What I was gonna say is that, if you were up to it, Will and I have a basement apartment that he </span> <span class="qualifier"> just </span> <span class="hardreadability"> redid and that we’re looking for someone to fill it </span>.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><em> Will and I</em>. Married.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“I-”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“It wouldn’t be anything super serious, <span class="qualifier"> just </span>a friend staying with friends. That’s fine, right?” Her voice pitches up an octave at the last word, <span class="adverb"> really </span>laying on the question aspect. But, he thinks, there’s something else there. <span class="hardreadability"> He’s sent back to the second time he saw her, where she batted her eyelashes up at him when she stood next to him at the bulletin board</span>. There was an extra button open on her polo.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Huh.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip sneaks a glance at her chest.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>There’s an extra button open on her polo.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Huh.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“I’d have to talk to Will about it, but you don’t seem like a total freak and/or creep, which is kinda exactly what we’re looking for.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“I mean…” Chip says, shrugging. “It sounds nice. Thing is, how do I know if you aren’t some total freak and/or creep?”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Anna snorts and rolls her eyes. The corners of Chip’s mouth turn up and he puts the last can on the shelf.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Huh.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p> </p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Again, Chip is not one for first impressions.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p><span class="complexword"> However</span>, he thinks that the men of Waycross - excluding Nelson - are all assholes. Will Robinson included.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>The first time Chip sees Will, he’s hauling a cart of cereal boxes down an aisle. From here, he can see Anna <span class="adverb">perfectly</span>. She’s helping someone out right now, an elderly woman with a very fidgety grandson. <span class="hardreadability"> Chip notices the way that she smiles a real-person smile, not the sharky smile that Liza would smile at him when she wanted head</span>. Her smile is mega-watt and contagious and good like the rest of her.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Married.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip turns his head and takes his box cutter out to open one of the boxes. He slashes through the tape and rips the cardboard, grabbing a box of Apple Jacks and setting it on the shelf. Then, as he goes for the second box, he hears a squeal. Looking back at Anna, she’s now wrapped herself around someone. He’s sandy-haired and tall and has strong-looking arms. He’s wearing dark jeans and a grey shirt.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Married.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip bites his tongue as he unpacks more cereal. <span class="veryhardreadability"> The fluorescent green boxes blur in his vision as he’s tossed out of his body, choosing to slip off to some daydream rather than face the fact that the girl he wakes up at three in the morning in a cold sweat over is playing koala with her husband</span>.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Chip!”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip’s vision snaps back into place. He sets down a box and turns around. Anna looks at him, almost like a little girl preparing to show daddy her macaroni necklace. She’s holding his hand.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“This is Will,” she says, gesturing with her free hand. “Will, this is Chip Taylor. He’s a friend.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Will offers his hand. Chip takes it, giving him a closed-mouth smile.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Good to meet you,” Will says, staring deep in Chip’s eyes. Chip fights back a shiver as he drops the handshake.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Likewise,” he murmurs. Anna grins, swinging her and Will’s connected hands. She smiles up at him and leans her head against his shoulder.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Oh! Chip, did you take your break yet?”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Chip grits his teeth. He’s not <span class="adverb">really </span>sure if he wants to spend his break with Will around, but beggars can’t be choosers.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“No, I haven’t. We gonna talk about that apartment?”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Will straightens up a bit. He clears his throat and Anna moves away from him, almost on instinct. Daddy does not like the macaroni necklace.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Yeah, if it’s alright with you.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>“Lead the way.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>Anna smiles and tugs Will down the aisle. Chip ditches the cart and follows them. At one point, Will leans down to Anna’s ear and whispers something in it, making her back straighten. Chip looks down at the ground.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="public-DraftStyleDefault-block public-DraftStyleDefault-ltr">
    <p>In the break room, Will drags Anna down to sit on his lap. She lets out an oof and a giggle, smiling at him as he snakes a palm up her thigh and keeps it there. Chip tries not to notice. It’s an obvious show of dominance, of check-me-out-loser-I’m-the-one-who-gets-to-fuck-her bravado. It doesn't seem to bother Anna, or that she's really good at hiding it.</p>
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    <p>“So, what’s this about the apartment?” he asks.</p>
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    <p>“I told Chip about the apartment in the basement, y’know,” Anna starts, fingers dancing in her lap. Her thumb spins the ring on her finger. “We’ve been looking for someone for so long and here comes a guy that I’m friends with and who needs a place.”</p>
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    <p>Chip feels like he shouldn’t be here. Will sighs and his fingers twitch upward and under the hem of Anna’s skirt. Jesus. He’s ready to actually get up and leave the seat until he’s pinned down with a look.</p>
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    <p>“Where are you right now?”</p>
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    <p>“Uh,” Chip starts. “Helen’s Haven?”</p>
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    <p>“Jesus,” Will swears, shaking his head. “Beds of nails, huh?”</p>
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    <p>Chip allows himself a laugh. Look at that, Chip, he makes the same jokes she makes. Yeah, Chip, ‘cause that’s what married people do.</p>
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    <p>Married. Married, married, married. It doesn’t even sound like a word anymore. If he said it out loud, it would feel foreign on his tongue. <span class="hardreadability"> He watches them talk it out amongst themselves across the table, her spinning the ring and him keeping his fingertips on a steady course upwards</span>. He wants to puke.</p>
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    <p>“Well?”</p>
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    <p>Anna’s pleading voice breaks him out of his trance. He looks up and releases his fist’s hold on his thumb, which he didn’t know he had. Will gives Chip another once-over. He shrugs.</p>
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    <p>“Anyone that Jermaine hires I trust.” Ironic.</p>
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    <p>Anna lets out a sigh and squeezes his shoulders. She stops spinning her ring. Chip smiles. Will pats her thigh twice and she slides off. All three of them stand up and Will offers his hand again for shaking. Chip takes it. Anna smiles at the two of them, playing with the collar of her polo. One extra button.</p>
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    <p>Huh.</p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the song for this chapter is "How Much More" by the Go-Go's (as you can tell I like 80s music). don't hesitate to check out my spotify playlist under the same name (user: gym_class_heroine). kudos and comments are always appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. criminal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hi everyone! coming at you with (looooooooong) addition to the saga of chip and anna. will they? won't they? only time shall tell! please enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anna doesn’t like hot dogs.</p><p>Well, really, she can’t eat them. That’s why she doesn’t like them.</p><p>It isn’t some kind of weird dietary restriction, isn’t some I-turn-my-nose-up-at-processed-meat thing. Not that. They have pork in them. That’s all.</p><p>She tells Will she doesn’t like hot dogs, so he makes her a hamburger instead.</p><p>As she squishes ground beef around in her palms to form a patty, she doesn’t look at her hands. It reminds her too much of the blood that spattered out of Jake Goldstein’s nose when Will sent his head to the curb when he was in the eleventh grade, her in the sixth. Sour bile fills her mouth and she closes her eyes when she puts it on the plate.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Anna opens her eyes. Looking over her shoulder, she sees a tousled Chip leaning against the kitchen island. She smiles.</p><p>“Hi.”</p><p>“You don’t eat hot dogs?” He asks. She gulps.</p><p>“Nah. Just don’t like ‘em.” Anna wonders why she’s suddenly so tense around Chip. He’s been an absolute dream for the past month: picks up after himself, cleans his own bathroom, mows the grass when Will asks or is out of town.</p><p>Really it’s because her <em>husband</em> has been on top of her ever since he’d moved in. The mid-August humidity slowly left, yes, but Will’s been adamant to replace it with his breath on her neck every night for the past two and a half weeks. She shifts on her feet and winces as her sore hips move.</p><p>They talk about growing pains, but what of marriage pains?</p><p>“You good?”</p><p>The question tosses Anna for a loop. She blinks and looks down at her hands. They shine with cow’s fat and clammy blood. Ew.</p><p>“I- good, yeah. Just a weird day for me.”</p><p>Chip’s brow twitches.</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>Damn him for being so forward, Anna thinks. Damn him, damn him to Hell. Damn him for <em>caring</em>. She sucks on her cheek and walks over to the sink.</p><p>“It’s my birthday.”</p><p>The rush of the tap shuts Chip up for a moment, thank God. Anna finds solace in running soap between her fingers, washing away the watery blood and fat and Jake Goldstein. Think of what he’ll look like when you tell him about your <em>brothers</em>, Anna, a silent voice teases.</p><p>“Happy birthday,” Chip says.</p><p>Anna might collapse on the very wood she picked out. The shiny hickory looks so comfortable, so stiff and unrelenting and unwavering, unlike her husband. Chip looks like that, too. Her throat feels thick and she turns off the tap, dries her hands on the seat of her shorts.</p><p>“Thanks, Chip.”</p><p> </p><p>Anna <em>does</em> like the lake.</p><p>She’s been a lake girl her whole life, having been raised in Waycross. Her dad would take her out and toss her into the water off the boat every Saturday until she got too heavy to do so. Only natural that today is Saturday.</p><p>Upstairs, in hers and Will’s bathroom, she considers herself in the mirror. She twists her mouth this way and that as she pulls at the strings of her bikini. She got it when she was with Ray in Daytona a few years ago. She stares at her lower belly, unmarred by stretch marks and fatty deposits and sighs. If - <em>if </em>- Will ever got her pregnant he’d be disgusted by her the second she was showing. She wishes she was Ray, what with her wonderful half-boyfriend, half-husband and their incredible girl and another one on the way. Really, she wishes she was anyone else at this moment.</p><p>“Damn, girl,” Will says. Anna flinches and gasps. He’s standing at the bathroom door, looking her up and down. “You look fuckin’ <em>hot</em>, babe.”</p><p>Anna can’t help but blush. “Think so?”</p><p>“Sure I do,” Will shrugs, making his blond curls bounce. He puts his hands on her waist and they’re hot. Their foreheads connect and she looks down at his chest. Grey Corvette t-shirt. “God, wish you could stay like this forever.”</p><p>Anna’s vision flashes bright red and she folds her tongue in two. There are a million things she wishes she could say right now. She really, really wishes she could. But, Jake Goldstein appears behind her closed eyelids, staring up at her with his broken nose and fat lips and missing tooth and she clamps her mouth shut, pretends it’s sewn shut. Will’s lips ghost over hers and she accepts them as a courtesy.</p><p><em>I could slam your head against the counter and tell people you fell</em>, she thinks.</p><p>Will’s hands grab at her hips and his fingers twirl in the strings of her bottoms.</p><p>
  <em>A freak lawnmower accident, maybe.</em>
</p><p>His tongue slips into her mouth and feels around.</p><p>
  <em>Maybe your car has bad brakes.</em>
</p><p>Will sighs and pulls away. Their noses brush against each other and she looks down at her hands on his chest. Grey Corvette t-shirt.</p><p>“Where’d you go?”</p><p>Anna doesn’t know how to answer the question. She runs her fingers over the fabric, picks at a place where some of the iron-on decal has peeled away. She shrugs.</p><p>“Don’t know,” she sighs. “Tired.” Will chuckles.</p><p>“Bet you are. We had fun last night.”</p><p>Sure, Will. If you could call a fifteen-minute hip-smashing session where he finishes and she doesn’t and is sore all day until it happens again. Anna pushes away from him and fakes a smile.</p><p>“Come on, Ollie and Jaycee are gonna be here soon.”</p><p>Will <em>hm</em>s and gives her another up-and-down glance. When she goes to pull her hand away from his chest, he grabs her wrist, pinning her in place. His blue eyes stare daggers into hers as he leans down and raises her palm to his lips. He kisses over the back of her wedding band, nipping at the skin right below it. Anna pretends to like it as a courtesy.</p><p> </p><p>Anna knew Chip doesn’t like Jermaine. God, who likes Jermaine besides Will?</p><p>What makes today funny, though, is that Ollie is Jermaine’s younger brother and a near-perfect copy. So, when he and Jaycee, his twenty-year-old baby-heavy bride step out of a bright blue Charger, she likes watching his face scrunch up. His nose turns upwards and she agrees with it. She likes Chip because of that: they knew that, despite how dumb and how poor they really are, they’re way too good to be hanging around shitlickers like the ones Will attracts.</p><p>In the gravelly driveway, Will daps up Ollie as Jaycee waddles up towards the porch. Anna steps down to greet her, admiring her pregnant belly. She’s short and blonde and grinny and another person who’s too good for Waycross but is down on her luck. At least Ollie doesn’t seem the cheating type.</p><p>“God, you look so good!” Anna says, pulling Jaycee in for a hug. Jaycee laughs and runs a hand across the drum-tight skin.</p><p>“Wish I felt as good as I look,” she says. “Can’t barely walk no more. Ollie might have to dump me in a wheelbarrow and push me around everywhere.”</p><p>“Aw, don’t say that.”</p><p>Anna turns around on her heel and faces Chip. He’s squinting down at her from the porch, hand shielding his eyes from the residual sun. She waves him over.</p><p>“Who is <em>he</em>? Do I know him?” Jaycee whispers, leaning in. Anna rolls her eyes and scoffs. Jaycee giggles and runs her hand over her belly again. Anna doesn’t watch, just follows Chip as he comes down the steps and into the yard.</p><p>“Hey,” he says. Jaycee waves at him and gives him a coy smile.</p><p>“Chip, this is Jaycee,” Anna says. Jaycee holds out her hand and Chip accepts it gently like he’s holding a butterfly. “Jaycee, Chip.”</p><p>“You work at the store, don’t you?” Jaycee asks. Chip blushes across his cheeks and nose and Anna’s heart and stomach flutter.</p><p>“Y-yeah.”</p><p>Jaycee pokes Anna in the bicep. “<em>That’s </em>where I know him from! I saw you one day, fixing up some cans.”</p><p>Anna looks at him. He shifts from foot to foot, looking down at the ground. Jaycee opens her mouth again and Anna is about to cover up when Will and Ollie come up behind her.</p><p>“C’mon, Anna,” Will says, hand finding the small of her back. “Ollie’s got some beer that he needs ice for, don’t want it to get warm on us.” He presses a kiss to her cheek.</p><p>“Guess that’s our cue,” Jaycee sighs. Anna laughs and squeezes her arm once, then turns and shuffles after her husband. As she goes, Anna can’t help but feel a bitter finger of jealousy crawl down her throat. She presses her lips together and chews on her cheek.</p><p>“Odd crew.”</p><p>Chip is standing next to her, so close she can feel the heat off him leech out into the air.</p><p>“I knew you wouldn’t like Ollie.”</p><p>“I don’t <em>not </em>like him. Not yet.”</p><p>“Wait.”</p><p> </p><p>God, Anna <em>really </em>loves the lake. She raises her face into the air, lets the spray off the sides of the pontoon get into her hair and onto her shoulders. The sun is hot on her chest and it makes the vinyl of the seats burn. It feels amazing.</p><p>Will is talking to Ollie from the captain’s chair, beer in hand. He’s better when he’s drunk and relaxed, more passive and less perceptive. It makes it a lot easier for her to move in on Chip this way.</p><p>Should she be ashamed? Yes. Should she feel bad that she’s using Chip as a pawn in a stupid couple’s quarrel? Yes. Does she? Not really. Not when his stare is melting holes between her shoulder blades, big hand wrapped around a koozie-d can of Coors. It feels good, almost as good as the lake in her hair. It feels good to be wanted.</p><p>The pontoon slows to a stop in the near-center of the water. The music Will has on comes back into focus, loud and brash. He gets out of the chair and stomps up to the front of the boat. Ollie and Jaycee start into a conversation as Will tosses the anchor over the side.</p><p>“Not even a breeze today,” he says, squinting back at Anna. “Good for swimming.”</p><p>Anna doesn’t respond because she’s stripping herself of her coverup. Her flip flops are flipped and flopped into a corner and she tosses her sunglasses onto the seat. Will doesn’t bother saying another word to her as she takes one, two, three steps and dives straight into the water.</p><p>With your eyes closed, diving into the lake is horrifying. It’s dark and cold and Anna could be swimming into the mouth of a shark for all she cared. Thing is, she doesn’t. Bubbles tickle her as she kicks around under the surface, turning this way and that in the water. She comes up and Will’s smiling and shaking his head at her.</p><p>“How is it?” Jaycee calls from the back of the boat. Anna ducks under the water and comes back up, smoothing her hair back out of her face.</p><p>“It’s great!” she calls back. “You gonna get in, babe?”</p><p>Will looks up from the marine carpet and shrugs.</p><p>“Gonna chill with Ollie for a while.”</p><p>Good.</p><p>“Alright,” Anna says, swimming a bit further out. She kicks her legs out and turns onto her back, floating spread-eagle. The sun sizzles the water off her belly and chest, relentless. She closes her eyes and listens to the water rushing in and out of her ears.</p><p>Anna was sure she could’ve fallen asleep like that, laid back and warm, but no. A wave passes over her legs and she’s flipped back into an upright position. The water near the boat is fizzy and white-green and Jaycee is cheering. Anna pulls herself through the water, getting close to the source of the agitation. She squints down at it and-</p><p>“Fuck!”</p><p>Anna ducks out of the way right as Chip’s head pops up from the waves. She kicks her leg out and her toenail barely grazes the skin of his stomach. He gasps and flips his head back, long hair sending a cascade of droplets out onto the water. It makes Anna’s stomach flinch. He’s breathing heavy and his eyes are hidden behind a few errant strands of inky brown hair. His Princess Peach lips are open and Anna bites down on hers.</p><p>God, if only, she thinks. He’s not even a foot away. He’s looking at you like that. You could just-</p><p>The three people on board the pontoon break out into raucous laughter at something Ollie said. Chip and Anna blink at the same time. He kicks away from her once, twice, not saying anything. Anna lets go of her bottom lip. She turns around and dives under the water.</p><p> </p><p>Anna sucks a piece of potato chip out of her teeth as she stares out the door. Chip, Jaycee, Ollie, and Will are sitting around the firepit sharing a laugh. Ollie and Will are reasonably drunk, not buzzed but not lit to the point where he and Jaycee would take the first-floor guest room. She’d gotten up from her spot, feeling a bit too hot to sit by the fire.</p><p>The way Chip looked at her in the water only a handful of hours earlier hasn’t left her mind. She curses herself in her mind, wrapping her arms tighter around her waist. If she really wanted to, she could sneak upstairs for a minute. Get in, get it done, get out. No one would know.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Anna jumps and seethes. Chip is standing across from her, holding an empty can of Coors. She brushes a lank strand of hair off her shoulder and straightens up.</p><p>“Hi.”</p><p>The silence is penetrated by the conversation behind them. Anna tries not to look at Chip, eyes dancing this way and that to avoid looking at him, look at his body, his big <em>hands</em>. She clears her throat.</p><p>“Need to get inside?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Anna steps aside and he nods at her in thanks.</p><p>The house is cool and dark, doused in blue light. Everything is made out of shadow. It turns Chip and Anna into pale ghosts, floating between and around one another, dancing around something neither of them wants to face. Anna spins the ring on her finger. God. God, God, <em>God</em>! She spins the ring faster as she thinks about how <em>easy </em>it would be to toss him against the counter and get it <em>over with</em>.</p><p>But no. She knows that Will would figure out some way or another and she’d end up chained to their bed for the rest of her life. Or, really, until he replaces her with whatever home-for-the-weekend college girl he’s humping. So she doesn’t. She spins her ring faster still.</p><p>“Is this you?”</p><p>Anna looks up from the floor. Chip is standing a few feet away - just like he was in the water - pointing up at a picture frame. Anna picks her head up and squints to look at the photo.</p><p>“Oh, yeah,” she scoffs, waving a hand. It’s her, crouched down near the ground holding a leopard cub up near her face. Next to her is a Santa Claus wannabe, red and grinning, wearing a short-sleeved plaid button-down. “That guy was a weirdo. Kept asking me if I wanted a job, if I had a job, do I want a job.”</p><p>That makes Chip chuckle. He spins the can around in his fingers. Anna folds her tongue in her mouth.</p><p>“Were you scared?” Chip’s voice dropped down to a barely-audible level, mystified and scared at the same time.</p><p>A chill races down her spine.</p><p>“Of what?”</p><p>“The-” he runs a hand over his mouth. “The cat?”</p><p>Anna considers it. The ring stops spinning.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Chip looks at her in the dark. It nails her to the floor, the stiff, unwavering floor. The whites of his eyes reflect the fire and the moonlight, the pupils and irises turned into flat black coins. Anna’s lips part, a rush of air passing through them. God, he was so <em>beautiful</em> and <em>there </em>and he was paying <em>attention</em>-</p><p>The rush of tires over gravel breaks Anna and Chip out of their trance. Anna closes her mouth and rushes past him, cheeks turning red. Will bellows at something Ollie says and Jaycee titters. She pushes through the screen door and out into the night.</p><p>“Hey-”</p><p>“What the <em>fuck</em>?”</p><p>Ray is standing at the foot of the porch. In her hands, a cupcake, lit candle creating a little dot of sunlight on her chest. Behind her, a man is slowly unbuckling a car seat.</p><p>“Happy birthday!”</p><p>Anna’s throat turns thick and she steps down into the grass, She wraps her arms around herself, cursing at her bad choice of coverup.</p><p>“Happy birthda-a-a-y,” the man whispers. There’s a toddler in his arms, sleeping deeply.</p><p>“God, <em>Max</em>,” Anna whispers. She reaches out to him and he gives her an awkward side hug, juggling the kid in his other arm. She stirs a bit and groans, thumb ejected from her mouth.</p><p>“Dada,” she moans, pressing a thick cheek against his shirt.</p><p>“Oh, baby, I know,” Max says, rubbing her back. “Aunt Anna is here.”</p><p>Just like that, she’s wide awake. Her eyes open into saucers, cheek unstuck from chest, head turning this way and that. Anna smiles and reaches out for her niece. As eagerly as she can, the girl slips from her fathers’ arms and into hers, wrapping her leg around her waist.</p><p>“Alright, we gotta get going,” Ray says, shifting. “This thing’s gonna ruin the frosting.”</p><p>“Oh, shit,” Anna says, laughing a bit. When Ray gives her a look, she presses an ear to the kid’s ear. “Don’t repeat that, babe.”</p><p>“We gonna sing?” Max asks. “You wanna sing, Dess?” The toddler looks away from Anna and nods. The three of them look at one another, take a deep, quiet breath, and start into a soft rendition of <em>Happy Birthday</em>.</p><p>Anna looks down at the ground so they can’t see her eyes welling up. She always gets like this: misty-eyed and dumbstruck, mind going hazy and tongue doubling. She sniffs when they finish. She looks at Dess and swallows hard.</p><p>“You wanna blow it out with me?” Dess nods. “Okay, on three. Ready? One, two - big breath! - three!” They lean over and blow the candle out. Ray cheers quietly and Max does a little dance in place while Dess and Anna laugh. A tear races down her cheek and she rubs it against the scrubby shoulder of her coverup.</p><p>After the small festivities, Max takes Dess back and takes his time buckling her into the car. Ray hands Anna her cupcake, bright teeth beaming against her deep skin. In the twilight she looks blue and beautiful, glowing as a pregnant woman does.</p><p>Funny thing about Ray, that glow. She’s never lost it. Even after she and Max decided to wait a little while until they had another kid. Whenever she held Desiree in her arms, a switch flipped. She turned on and cut straight through the darkness. Anna was green with jealousy, at first. Who wouldn’t be? Then, after she was christened godmother of tiny Dess, it disappeared. All of it went into how much she loved Ray, how proud she was of her best friend for doing something they’d talked about forever. If only she could join the club.</p><p>“You alright?”</p><p>Anna looks at the cupcake, then back at Ray.</p><p>“Yeah,” she says, frowning. Ray scoffs. Max is taking a <em>really </em>long time.</p><p>“Bull-<em>shit</em>.”</p><p>“Ray-”</p><p>“I’ve <em>told </em>you, Anna, just get out. Fucking- leave. Leave.”</p><p>“It’s not that easy, Ray,” Anna says, shaking her head. She uses her free hand to push her hair back out of her face, looking up at the streetlight.</p><p>“Yes, it is.”</p><p>“<em>No</em>.”</p><p>Ray blinks. Anna feels like she’s going to throw up. She lets out a shaky sigh and shakes her head again. Ray puts her hand on her arm, leads her over to the steps of the porch. They sit down and Anna wipes a few errant tears out of her eyes.</p><p>“You’ll probably feel better if you eat it.”</p><p>Anna coughs out a watery laugh and smiles. Shaky fingers peel back the wrapper and take out the candle slowly, almost reverently, There’s something about this cupcake that’s different than the other ones for the other birthdays. Something in the air. She bites into it.</p><p>“I got you something else, too,” Ray says, shifting in her place. Anna looks at her, swallowing a gob of red velvet and cream cheese frosting. Ray digs around in her sweatshirt pocket, fighting with whatever’s inside. She grunts and gives a vicious tug and out pops a CD case.</p><p>“Shut up,” Anna says. She doesn’t know why she said it; this is their gift to each other every year. Anna has to go to the library to burn hers. Ray hands her the case and Anna sets the other half of the cupcake on the step. It’s a bit hard to read in the dark, but she can make out “ANNA’S 25TH MIX!” on the front. “Thank you.”</p><p>“You’re welcome,” Ray says wistfully. “Might be the best one yet, actually.”</p><p>“Well, they’re all good, so.”</p><p>They laugh. There’s something between them, a spike of contention. Ray, as much as she wants to drag Anna out to the car, toss her in, and speed away, knows she won’t do it. Anna knows she won’t do it, either. They push it out of the way.</p><p>After a few minutes of silence, Anna finishes the cupcake. She wraps the candle in the greasy paper and squishes it in her fist. Ray sighs through her nose. They both look out into the driveway.</p><p>“Happy birthday, Anna,” Ray says. Anna looks at her.</p><p>“I love you.” Ray looks at Anna.</p><p>“I love you, too.”</p><p>Half-smiling, Ray leans over and wraps herself around Anna. It’s awkward and bony but warm, too, which is what matters. They both close their eyes.</p><p>When they detach themselves from one another, Ray stands up. She steps down from the porch and starts walking down the driveway to the car. When she opens the passenger door, she waves at Anna. Anna waves back. They pull out and slip away.</p><p> </p><p>Inside the house, Anna tosses her wrapper and candle away in the trash. Will, Ollie, and Jaycee are still having a ball at the firepit, Will poking around a fresh log with a stick. Chip leans against the kitchen counter, back to them, nursing another beer. Anna doesn’t acknowledge him, guessing he wants to be let alone. She turns around to leave, but a hand around her wrist stops her.</p><p>“Anna,” Chip says. She gasps softly, almost daintily.</p><p>“What?” The heat from his palm is radiating outwards and upwards, racing towards her heart. Chip does it again, pinning her down with a look. It’s the same one he gave her the second time he came into the store, half-lidded and unwavering and <em>hot</em>. The grip on her wrist loosens but those brown eyes look deeper.</p><p>“Happy birthday.”</p><p>Anna shivers. She thanks him under her breath and turns and leaves. The rest of her night goes off without a hitch. She showers, brushes her teeth, her hair, slips into some pajamas, turns out the light by eleven-thirty. When Will stumbles in at one, smelling like beer and mumbling, he turns the nightstand lamp on. He palms her hips, pulls down her shorts, pushes. When he grabs her chin and forces her to look into his eyes, blue turns to brown.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter's title song is Criminal by Fiona Apple! totally understandable from anna's point, in my opinion. don't hesitate to check out the spotify playlist (instructions in end notes of chapters 2 and 3)! kudos and comments always appreciated!</p><p>p.s. if you can name the guy that anna posed with in the photograph you will get a wonderful gift! (a virtual hug and smooch on the forehead from yours truly)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. i bet on losing dogs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello everyone! i'm very sorry that i haven't updated in such a long time :( things have been crazy for the past two months. between finishing my first semester of school and finding a job and family obligations i haven't had a lot of time to myself. however, i come to you with a very exciting (and very long!) update for a belated Hanukkah/Christmas/early Kwanzaa update! no matter what you're celebrating or celebrated, i hope you all have a wonderful holiday and are staying safe! happy reading! <br/>p.s. brace for pain</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next time Will leaves, it’s the end of August. Chip can see Anna from the door, her long, tan arms slung around his neck. They say things to one another that he can’t hear, give each other a <em>smak! </em>on the lips, then step back. Will waves once at Anna as he walks down the steps and gets in his big-ass truck.</p><p>What an asshole, Chip thinks. He rolls his eyes and sticks a spoonful of Cheerios into his mouth. Living in the South for most of his life told him that the bigger the truck, the smaller the dick. He snorts to himself and looks down into his bowl.</p><p>A few minutes pass and the screen door opens and shuts. Anna steps in, still clad in her pajamas. She runs a hand up and down the side of her face, sighing.</p><p>“Morning,” she says.</p><p>“Morning,” Chip replies.</p><p>He fucked up. He stirs his cereal and swallows. The palm of his right hand burns hot with the feeling of her wrist captured there, still fresh after two weeks. Ever since then, her birthday night, the conversations have been stinted and odd. Work conversations don’t go past making fun of Jermaine or picking on Nelson for his kiddie lunches. Needless to say, Chip hates it.</p><p>Anna takes down the box of Cheerios. The bottom edge of her sleep shirt tugs itself up and exposes the skin on her hip. Chip balks, almost dropping his spoon. How does she do that? Make him feel like some Victorian cuck, losing his marbles at the sight of <em>skin</em>-</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Chip blinks. He looks up, and Anna’s looking at him.</p><p>“Y-yeah?” He asks, his heart starting to race. A cold sweat breaks out on his palms as he watches Anna mull over her words. She takes a spoon from the silverware drawer, not looking at him.</p><p>“I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me today.”</p><p>Chip holds in his sigh of relief. He scoops up the few last Cheerios in his bowl and nods.</p><p>“Sure. What do you have to do?”</p><p>“I’m gonna go to the thrift, run around a bit.”</p><p>Chip hasn’t been to a thrift store in a long while. The thought of them brings back disturbing images from high school, most of the people laughing at him for owning secondhand clothes. Luckily, he’s gotten a tiny bit more confident in himself. Oh, and bigger. A lot bigger.</p><p>“Sounds good to me.”</p><p>“Good deal.”</p><p>“What time are we leaving?”</p><p>Anna turns, taking a bite from her bowl. The cat clock that’s hanging over the fridge reads <em>7:43</em>.</p><p>“In forty-five?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>Anna nods and turns away from him, opening a cabinet and digging around in it.</p><p>Odd fucking conversations.</p><p> </p><p>Chip steps out of the house forty-five minutes later. The Sunday sun is high in the sky and he can see heat lines coming off the pavement, ready to cook tires and children’s feet. Anna is standing next to the El Camino, dressed in a pair of denim overalls and a baggy t-shirt. She looks a lot more comfortable that way, out of her mini-skirt and green polo, in something she chose. When he steps up to the car, she looks at him, eyes shielded by a pair of sunglasses.</p><p>“Ready to go?” she asks. A breeze rolls in from the lake and Chip catches peppermint in the air.</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Chip thinks Anna looks comfortable in the driver’s seat of the car, too. She keeps the windows rolled down, lets the wind blow her hair back. He’s surrounded, suffocated with the smell of peppermint. Everywhere he goes he smells it. He brushes his teeth and, suddenly, Anna.</p><p>It’s a bit shameful of him to say that she’s consumed every bit of his mind for the past two-ish months. Liza made him feel like that at some points, especially when they first met. She was just so <em>cool</em> and <em>didn’t care</em> and <em>hot</em>. He should’ve seen through that before… everything.</p><p>Anna, though. Chip knows that this is something different, that she’s someone different. No, not in that douchey promise-I-won’t-cheat-on-you way, more like a I-think-you’re-my-person way. If only he’d fess up to that dumbass mistake. He bites his tongue.</p><p>“Where’d you get the ride?” he asks. Anna glances at him and snickers.</p><p>“Well,” she starts, adjusting herself. She has her left foot planted on the bench seat, elbow propped up on it. “Will got it as a wedding gift.”</p><p>“Wow,” was all Chip could say. Of course, he’d buy her a fucking <em>hot rod</em> for a wedding gift.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s about right. You’d say ‘wow’ until I tell you that he scooped this off some rich guy a few towns over from Waycross for a fraction of the real price.”</p><p>“Really?” Chip was starting to lose interest. If she mentions Will one more time, he might have to tuck and roll onto the highway and run screaming into the cornfields that line it.</p><p>“It gets funnier because this was a gift for his daughter for her birthday and he took it back after he caught her and her boyfriend fucking in the bed.”</p><p>What the fuck? Chip balks, jaw dropping open. “No way.”</p><p>Anna looks at him again. “She had a virginity <em>promise ring</em>, Chip.”</p><p>A chill races down his back when she says his name. “A fucking promise ring?”</p><p>Anna laughs. “Yeah, a fucking promise ring.”</p><p> </p><p>Somewhere along the dusty, boring highway trip, Chip falls asleep. He didn’t sleep very well last night. When Anna noticed his eyes drooping every few seconds, she gives him a small, stiff smile, a silent go-ahead. He leans his head against the door and falls asleep.</p><p>He’s plagued with all types of imagery. A sunny field, a bloody motel tub. Blue sky, burning trailer. It switches up so fast he can barely keep up. He hears voices, too. Sometimes they knit together, a chorus of laughing girls dancing around his head. He picks Violet out of the crowd easier than any of the other ones, mainly because she’s been saying the same thing over and over again.</p><p>“I like her, Chip.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Violet smiles at him. Her lips split over her teeth and he braces for the gush of blood from between them. It doesn’t come.</p><p>“Anna.”</p><p>It makes Chip queasy. He loved Violet. He knew he could’ve made it with her. It feels like a massive disservice, a kick in the teeth for him to fall for someone so quickly after he’d fallen for her.</p><p>“I- I’m sorry.”</p><p>Violet’s brow crumples and the smile disappears. She steps closer to him and reaches up to touch his face. Chip watches from the corner of his eye as her fingertips make contact. They feel like bumblebees; soft and sweet, but still bugs. His palms itch and he shudders.</p><p>“You don’t have to be sorry.”</p><p>“But I am.” Maybe Chip wasn’t just sorry for Violet. Maybe he felt sorry for himself. It’s laughable how small the chance is, but maybe there’s a part of his subconscious that knows he’s better than Liza, better than the trailer, better than hauling shit. Better than his life in Louisiana.</p><p>Chip gasps at a sudden realization. He’s been used. He’s <em>being</em> used. He will be used. Liza, Monica, that nasty-ass chick at the gas station… now Anna. The one bit of hope that he has for her - for their relationship, more like - is crushed when he thinks about Will. He was a rebuttal, a rich steak waved in the face of a starving wolf, ripe for destruction and consumption. It makes him feel dirty.</p><p>Chip doesn’t really like feeling dirty.</p><p>In the midst of his <em>aha!</em> moment, he didn’t realize the dream had dropped off and changed. He’s laying on his back in bed, in the basement bedroom Anna and Will are so <em>graciously</em> letting him use. He looks down and his hands are wrapped around a pair of hips, nestled right above his-</p><p>“Chip.”</p><p>He looks back up. Anna’s face hovers right over his. Her brow is dappled with beading sweat, pupils blown wide, hair stringy and knotted. One of his hands slides up to her back. In his palm, he feels the rumble of her breaths, the bumps of her spine. He feels something graze against his cheek. He looks back at Anna.</p><p>She’s somehow closer than she was before. Their noses are centimeters apart, so close that he can feel her heavy breath on his lips. Peppermint. He gulps. She leans in, closes the gap, kisses him. She pulls away, hair forming a curtain around their faces. He looks into her eyes.</p><p>“Chip?”</p><p>He opens his. There’s a soft hand on his shoulder. He peels his cheek from his palm and turns in place.</p><p>“Wow,” Anna says. “You were really out there.”</p><p>Chip nods and sits up. “Didn’t sleep very well last night.”</p><p>“I can tell.”</p><p>The hand leaves his shoulder and turns the El Camino off. It’s parked right in front of a brick building, sandwiched by two other cars.</p><p>“Where are we?”</p><p>“About an hour out of Waycross,” Anna answers. She twists her body to pick her purse up and out of the backseat. “Town called Edminster.”</p><p>Chip nods blearily. He can’t tell if he’s still dreaming. He unbuckles his seat in tandem with Anna and steps out of the car. The sun is hidden behind a sheet of white clouds. A breeze carries the smell of mothballs and attic from the sliding doors of the Goodwill. They cross the threshold and Chip blinks a few times to orient himself. He can’t shake sleep.</p><p>The Goodwill is busy. Tired mothers push sticky-wheeled carts down narrow aisles, dragging small children with them. An especially tall man ponders over the jeans selection for so long Chip almost pushes him out of the way. Old grandma-looking ladies rattle the shitty dinnerware in the home goods section. Above the commotion, the fluorescent lights flicker and buzz. All the employees look bored.</p><p>As he tries on his picks, Chip mulls over his dream. He can’t remember much of it, just his big revelation. Was he right to resign himself to this? A life of half-open eyes, beer, a girl he couldn’t get? He could do a lot better, he thinks. Hiking up a pair of jeans, he thinks about his finances. Most of the sixty-eight grand is still there. Actually, if he tallied it up, he’d been spending more earned money than stolen.</p><p>If he really wanted to, he could leave in the middle of the night and no one would be the wiser. Or care.</p><p>Chip and Anna leave Goodwill with a big plastic bag of clothes. She dumps it in the backseat of the El Camino and gets into the driver’s seat. He bites the inside of his cheek. In the hour or so spent in the shop, Anna’s mood had soured completely. She doesn’t smile at Chip when he gets into the passenger’s seat, something that he was sort of looking forward to.</p><p>“Crazy in there, huh?” He asks, entirely on a whim.</p><p>“Yeah,” Anna replies. Her voice is completely flat, a drone to fill the silence of the car. Instead of peppermint, he smells that thrift store smell. She pulls out of the parking lot, out of town, and back onto the highway without another word.</p><p> </p><p>The drive to… wherever they are going is silent. Anna didn’t turn the radio on, which came as a relief to Chip. He can’t stomach turning the radio on in the Mustang yet. Anna pulls off the highway at some point, turning onto a winding network of bumpy backroads. They’re surrounded on both sides by greenery that passes in a leafy mush. Every so often there’s a clearing, a house sitting alone in the center.</p><p>Chip enjoys the quietness of this place. It feels natural to him, like going back to your childhood home. He’d grown up in an area like this, in a trailer not unlike the one he and Liza occupied. He relaxes into the soft leather of the bench seat with a sigh.</p><p>When he was just getting comfortable, Anna hits the blinker and slows down. Chip frowns and looks around - there’s nowhere to turn in. Despite that, she hangs a right onto a near-invisible gravel drive and continues on. It makes the car rattle like hell.</p><p>“Holy shit,” Chip says, pressing his hand against the ceiling. Anna grits her teeth.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>They rumble down the drive, almost choked by weepy oak trees, until they’re not. A clearing opens up and a double-wide with a screened-in porch appears. An old silver square-body truck is parked in front of it, as well as a squat brick fire pit. The car slows and Anna pulls up next to the truck, parking it.</p><p>“What’s this?” Chip asks, out of breath from the rough ride.</p><p>Anna looks at him, her mouth open. She closes it and her eyes flick towards the trailer, then back to Chip.</p><p>“My dad’s place.”</p><p>They look at each other for a second. Anna swallows and sniffs, turning her attention back to the trailer. Chip can’t say anything; he doesn’t really know what <em>to </em>say. Without another word, Anna exits the car and walks up the stairs into the porch.</p><p>Chip hesitates. Should he get out? He reaches down to undo his seatbelt but stops. Would it be uncouth of him to step into Anna’s dad’s place behind her? No, he’ll just stand near the car, maybe sit on the hood. He nods and unbuckles. Not too nosy but not too I’m-waiting-for-mommy-to-come-out-of-the-store.</p><p>When he gets out, he steals a peek through the screen. He can’t see anything, maybe the faint outline of the door, perhaps a couch of some sort. Pots hanging from the ceiling overflow with leafy growth. When he gets closer to inspect them, the screen door opens. Chip jumps back and curses to himself, running his hands over his hair. The door from the porch to the steps opens and Anna’s head pops out. She’s smiling. Chip frowns.</p><p>“Wanna meet my dad?”</p><p> </p><p>Anna’s dad is everything and nothing he expected him to be. When he reaches the top of the steps, he almost turns around and leaves. Anna stands next to him, still smiling, arm interlinked with his. He’s just a bit taller than her, by an inch or so. His hair is brown and shaggy, hanging low enough to obscure the top of a pair of sunglasses. He reminds Chip of a mutt of some sort, a bit raggedy but still scary enough to make you want to back away slowly with your hands raised.</p><p>“You Chip?” He asks. He has an untraceable accent.</p><p>“Yes, sir,” he says, nodding. He gives himself a mental pat on the back for being able to get it out without his voice cracking in seven different places. He can feel the way he’s being sized up, calculated, evaluated.</p><p>A hand swings out. “Mike.”</p><p>Chip accepts the handshake, giving him a tight-lipped smile and a nod. Anna’s smile cracks a little bit wider. It makes Chip waver a bit. She and her father share the same tan complexion, his from working outside, hers from lounging. He feels like a dad.</p><p>“Want something to drink, dad? Chip?” Anna asks, voice light and airy. Chip does a double-take at her new attitude; just minutes ago she was scowling her way around Goodwill, parting the waves of people converging on the aisle she was in. Now she’s happy as a clam - or is acting like she is.</p><p>“Get me a Pabst, hon,” Mike says. He turns to Chip. “Want one?”</p><p>Chip nods his assent and Anna’s cheeks pick up a little bit. She turns into the house, the screen door banging softly shut behind her.</p><p>“Take a seat,” Mike says. Chip looks around the porch. There’s a couch fashioned from an ugly brown plaid-ish fabric to the right side of the door, a matching recliner to the left. Mike takes the chair so Chip takes the couch. Mike grunts as he lowers himself in, grimacing a little bit. “Where you from, Chip?”</p><p>Chip swallows his tongue. “Louisiana.” Mike nods sagely.</p><p>“New Orleans or Baton Rouge?”</p><p>“Uh, neither.” Mike scoffs and laughs. Chip offers a nervous smile. Outside the porch, cicadas swell, then calm, then repeat the cycle. The sun peeks out from behind the clouds, then hides again seconds later.</p><p>Luckily, before Mike can ask any other questions, Anna exits the trailer, three cans of Blue Ribbon in her hands. She hands one to her father and he thanks her. She holds one out to Chip, standing the tiniest bit between his spread legs. He takes it, giving her a cautious nod. She steps away and sits on the opposite end of the couch, kicking her long legs up onto the cushions. The toes of her shoes nearly touch Chip’s thigh and he takes a greedy sip of his beer. This is the closest she’s been to him in a couple of weeks.</p><p>“Have you interrogated Chip sufficiently yet, dad?” She asks. Mike smiles behind the lip of his can.</p><p>“Not nearly, hon.” He reaches a hand up to adjust his sunglasses, stops, then takes them off completely. He turns to the two of them on the couch, looking over them with impossibly blue eyes. He watches Anna like a hawk, analyzing her in the same way he’d analyzed Chip earlier. “How are you?”</p><p>Anna opens her beer and studies it. She shrugs. “Fine.”</p><p>Chip looks at Mike, who’s now leaning forward in his seat. “There’s no way that’s true.”</p><p>“Will’s gone up to Kansas City.”</p><p>“Well, fuck,” Mike says, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll drink to that.”</p><p>Shit, Chip thinks, so can I. He takes a drink. When he looks at Anna, he sets the can down on his thigh. She cradles her drink close to her chest, long fingers wrapped around it. Her wedding band is dull in the shade of the porch. Her face is pinched up in several different places; her eyebrows come down over her eyes in an angry frown, her mouth set in a hard line.</p><p>“Dad,” she warns.</p><p>“You know I don’t give a shit about him, Anna. <em>He </em>doesn’t give a shit about <em>you</em>.”</p><p>“At least he’s <em>there</em>.”</p><p>Mike doesn’t say anything. Chip can feel the anger roll off Anna in hot waves, her toes curled in her shoes. She’s white-knuckling her Pabst, hand shaking a little bit. Chip shifts uncomfortably, nervous to be in the middle of their silent standoff. It’s like watching two armies line up across a field - you can’t tell who’s going to fire first.</p><p>Finally, Mike sighs. He leans back in the recliner, making its springs hiss and squeal. He looks at Chip, whose hands are going clammy.</p><p>“Bet Chip wouldn’t be like him,” he says. “Would you, Chip?”</p><p>Oh, holy <em>fuck</em>. He opens his mouth, a nervous laugh tumbling past his lips. He looks at Anna, who’s still staring at her father.</p><p>“I-” he starts, unsure. He takes another look at Mike, who seems ready to rip his throat out lest he says the wrong thing. He turns back to Anna. “I’d try hard not to.”</p><p>Anna looks at him. Her jaw twitches and her eyes widen a bit. Her face falls and she sucks her top lip into her mouth with a breath. She turns away from him and lets out a shaky breath.</p><p>Chip needs to get his fucking program together. One minute he’s two inches from bolting in the dead of night, the second he’s collapsing at Anna’s feet. He needs to figure out what the hell he’s thinking or else he’s gonna lose it. He takes a drink of his beer, which is now half gone. He wants another.</p><p> </p><p>The rest of the time spent at Anna’s dad’s house is spent in silence. The three of them sit on the porch, looking out into the clearing, past the cars. Anna takes small, frequent sips of beer, deep in thought. Chip sees her face crumple, then pull back together a few times. Mike, on the other hand, keeps his composure, cradling his chin in a pair of calloused fingers.</p><p>They all finish their beers at the same time. Anna stands up, dusting the seat of her pants off. Chip crumples his can in his hand out of habit. It makes her flinch. Without looking at him she asks for it. He offers it up, she takes it, then takes her father’s. She goes into the trailer without a word.</p><p>“Mind doing me a favor?” Mike asks, completely out of nowhere. Chip looks at him, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>“Sure,” he says, trailing off.</p><p>“Look out for her.” When he says it, he doesn’t look at Chip. A chill rushes down his back and he goes to say ‘I will’, but freezes. His mouth hangs open and he looks at the El Camino. He steels himself and presses his lips together. Swallowing his words, he nods.</p><p>Anna comes out of the trailer and both Mike and Chip stand up. Mike goes to hug Anna but she refuses him, dodging him for a short, terse kiss on the cheek instead. Chip shoves his hands into his front pockets, unsure of what to do with them.</p><p>“See you later, dad,” Anna mutters. He gives her a small smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, and watches her walk out of the porch. He turns to Chip. Neither one say anything. It doesn’t feel <em>right</em> to. They share a nod and Chip walks off, down the stairs, and to the passenger’s seat of the El Camino.</p><p>Anna is turning on the ignition when Chip opens the door. He can hear Mike reenter the trailer, leaving the two of them alone outside. He slowly buckles in, trying to stay as quiet as he can. Anna rubs two thin fingers against her lips, trying to hide the way her jaw quivers. Chip turns away.</p><p>A moment passes. The sun flashes in the clearing again. Anna sniffs and rests her hands against the steering wheel, flexing and clenching her hands against it. She huffs out a little self-deprecating laugh and takes a deep breath in. Chip turns back to her just as she presses her forehead against her hands. Her hair creates a wall between them, impenetrable. His heart starts to race, confused and anxious and worried. He lifts his hand when he’s sure she can’t see him, slowly reaching for her shoulder. He bites his cheek and sets it down on the warm, smooth skin there.</p><p>Anna flies backward in her seat, gasping. Chip flinches and shudders but his hand doesn’t leave her. She turns her face towards him to look at the intruding limb, eyes red-rimmed and watering. Her lips part, as if to say something, but nothing comes out. When she does try to talk, a squeak leaves her throat. Chip’s frowning, still worried. When he cocks his wrist to the left, switches the position of his hand on her shoulder by an inch, their eyes meet.</p><p>Chip doesn’t register Anna’s movement until she crashes into his chest. He sits shocked as he feels her mouth open against his right shoulder, a deep sob leaving her mouth. The flats of her teeth - even the sharp points of her canines - are felt through his shirt. His hand hovers in the space in front of himself, paralyzed, as she cries into him. A hand fists into the material above his stomach and he looks down at her. Desperate for contact, she pushes herself into him further, almost laying across his lap. Both of their bodies rock as she howls, snot, tears, and spit forming wet spots.</p><p>On its own accord, Chip’s hand moves, coming to rest lightly on the top of Anna’s back. She bows and shakes at the touch, a pained cry crowing from her lips in three parts. His other hand comes up and takes up residence on her hip, not unlike his dream. Peppermint fills his nose. He can taste shampoo in his mouth. His hand travels up further and rests high on her back, pointer finger resting on the top knot of her spine. Even with just a fingertip on it, her skin is searing. He rests his chin on her head, sighing.</p><p>If this is what being used feels like, Chip hates it. But, bitterly, he thinks about the promise he’d made her father.</p><p>He turns so his cheek rests on the crown of her head and closes his eyes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the song referenced in this chapter is Mitski's "I Bet On Losing Dogs"! remember, there's a companion playlist for this fic (instructions to find it in the end notes of chapters 2/3) on spotify for your listening pleasure! if you can guess whoever the hell i cast as anna's dad then you're awesome and i will deliver a swift virtual smooch to your cheek. love ya!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. doll parts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>AAAH I'M BACK! i'm so so so excited for you all to read it! school has been stressful and i got a job so it's been a bit of a struggle getting the motivation and the time to actually write so :( but anyways i'm back baby! happy reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On Monday, Will calls Anna and tells her that he won’t be home until next Sunday. She puts on a false voice, one filled with sadness and boredom. When he talks, she spins her ring on her ring finger. She keeps on thinking about taking it off. Maybe she should.</p><p>“Some dipshit fucked up an order, not gonna be able to get it in until Friday night,” Will sighs. Anna can see him now, hand on his hip, eyes concealed with a pair of ugly Oakley sunglasses she begged him not to buy.</p><p>“Damn, I’m sorry,” she replies, a sigh hanging on the edge of her sentence. Will doesn’t seem to catch it; rather, Anna can hear him turn his head and say something to someone next to him. The bay window across from the kitchen is halfway open, letting the morning breeze slip in. A few kids play in the artificial beach the neighbors made. One dumps sand down the other’s back and Anna snorts, a wistful smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.</p><p>Will starts talking to her again, spitting fire and brimstone about how stupid this construction crew is and if he had his own guys there this wouldn’t have happened and shit like that. Anna comes back to attention after a woman, probably a grandmother, rushes in to aid the now-crying child.</p><p>“Fucking stupid people, Anna. I hate stupid fucking people.” Will says.</p><p>“Yeah,” she replies, dazed. Her free hand comes up to her lips, rubbing across them. She keeps staring out the bay window.</p><p>God, she needs a cigarette.</p><p>Once she gets off the phone, Anna slams it back down into its receiver and storms out of the kitchen. She tosses the screen door open with reckless abandon, doesn’t care about the way that it shakes and rattles on its track. Her bare feet hit the plasticky flooring of the deck and she huffs. The morning air is fresh and light, the barest tinge of fall weather riding on it. A slight breeze kicks up and she huffs again, turning and stepping down off the deck.</p><p>Anna learned very quickly in her marriage that, if she were to hide something, it had to be hidden <em>well</em>. She wasn’t the sneaky type, didn’t like jumping out bedroom windows in order to head to parties, didn’t steal dad’s keys for a bat-out-of-hell drive around town at three in the morning. Will turned her into that, though. Will had that effect on people. Once, he’d walked in on her in their bed, hand down the front of her shorts, eyes closed tight enough to hurt; he had asked her if she was thinking of her. She said yes. Did it inflate his ego? Of course, it did. Did she want to tell him that she was furiously trying to get off after watching an old Type O-Negative concert on some music television channel, thinking about Peter Steele? Of course not.</p><p>Marriage made Anna sneaky like that.</p><p>Now she’s halfway under the deck, searching blindly for-</p><p>“Fuck yeah,” she murmurs, pulling a Ziploc bag-wrapped box out from under one of the steps. She reaches up and dumps it on the deck, pulling herself out from underneath. She doesn’t bother to shake the dirt and cobwebs from her hair as she picks up the bag and unzips it. Out tumbles a weatherproof box, a small square one that she’d picked up from the grocery store on a whim one day years ago. Her fingers fight with the snaps on the sides of the lid, making them burn as she pops them and reaches for the contents of the box.</p><p>“Fuck yeah,” she repeats. Shaking hands flip open the lid of a crushed pack of Marlboro Reds. She shakes it around, picking one of the cigarettes and sticking it between her lips. Her unoccupied hand grabs the lighter that she put in the box, lighting up. The first deep inhale makes her moan in relief. Turning around, she sits down on the deck, shutting her eyes. The wind picks up, buffetting slightly against her back. Her hair floats up around her face, getting stuck in the spit on her lips.</p><p>The cigarette calms her down, thank God. She sits and smokes it for a long time, trying to savor it as best as she can. She feels jaded, old, like the ladies at the store who sit out back on their thirty and smoke and drink Diet Coke in silence with one another. It makes her feel a lot better.</p><p>A slight commotion in the kitchen breaks her out of her meditative state. Frowning, she leans back and looks through the screen. She can see Chip’s back, watches him rifle through the cabinet above the dishwasher. He curses under his breath and Anna laughs at that. He closes the cabinet door and turns around, running his hands over his thighs.</p><p>In the haze of her cigarette, Anna starts to introspect. When she really thinks about it, Chip was something to hide from Will, too. Sweet Chip, sweet and gawky Chip, who draws the <em>f</em>s out on his <em>fuck</em>s and looks at her like she’s the one that put the earth under his feet.</p><p>Anna never thought herself a hedonist, but daydreaming about him fucking her through her marital bed while mindlessly ringing up some soccer mom’s Wheaties is a lot of fun.</p><p>The screen door slides open and Anna jumps. Chip comes out of the house bare-footed, dressed in a pair of jeans and a thrifted t-shirt.</p><p>“Hi,” he says. Anna looks up at him and smiles.</p><p>“Hi.”</p><p>He takes another step forward and pivots on his heel, making to sit down next to Anna on the deck. She looks at him, then grunts. Pulling the box over onto her lap, she makes room for him to sit. He thanks her silently, nodding at her as he moves down to her level. Pulling on the cigarette, she takes it out of her mouth and taps off the ashes, letting them drop into the grass. She can feel Chip’s gaze on her, flicking between her left cheek and the box on her lap. She turns and looks at him.</p><p>“Want one?” she asks. He’s still looking at her - <em>mooning</em> at her.</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>It makes her legs shake a little bit. She looks away, down into the box. Chip follows her gaze and makes a noise.</p><p>“Not menthols, are they?” he asks.</p><p>Anna gasps, jaw dropping open. “I can’t <em>believe</em> you think that low of me.”</p><p>Chip laughs and shakes his head, blush turning his cheeks pink. Anna could’ve squealed.</p><p>“Yeah, ‘cause I hate you that much,” he says, reaching for the pack. He doesn’t wait for her to hold it out to him, plucking it from the thick plastic box himself. He taps the bottom of it twice against his thigh and flips the top open. Anna takes a drag off her cigarette as he uses his long fingers to pull his own out.</p><p>Mindlessly Anna picks the lighter up out of the box and holds it out for Chip. He bends at the waist and she flicks it on. Just as the business end of his cigarette is about to touch the flame, the wind picks up and it dies. Anna swears and tries it a few more times, to no avail.</p><p>“Here,” Chip says, muffled a little bit. He looks like James Dean a little bit, plush lips wrapping lazily around the smoke. Anna swallows a deep gasp when she feels him cup her hand in his two massive ones, bringing it closer to himself. She flicks it on and the flame stays this time, shielded by the tent he made with his fingers. “Thanks.”</p><p>“Welcome.” She drops her hand into her lap.</p><p>Anna’s never seen Chip smoke, but goddamn, he looks like he was born to do it. Hypocritical as it is, she could never get behind someone who smokes; in high school, she would turn her nose up at the goth girl who would offer her one when she went for lunch on the smoking dock. About a year into her marriage, she was at the grocery store, trying to work off some of the anger that she’d built up that morning. Will had come in from a job two hours away the night prior, during which he’d “fucked” her “senseless”. She could tell he was a bit drunk; the sheriff around here didn’t really care if he caught you with an open tallboy in your cupholder.</p><p>“Gonna get you fuckin’ pre’nant,” Will slurred, lips pressed to the side of her face. She almost retched.</p><p>So, when she went in for work the next day, sore and orgasm-less, she was pissed. Jermaine had let her off for her fifteen and she stormed her way straight out the back door. Lucky for her, the two smoking ladies were on their thirties. She pressed herself up against the brick of the building, huffing, near tears. The day was superbly gray, she remembered. There was a cough and she looked down to see the smoking lady closest to her holding her pack of Marlboro Reds out to her, pink Bic lighter tucked in next to them.</p><p>Anna, despite it being her first cigarette ever, did not cough upon inhalation.</p><p>Since then it’s been one about every week or so. She would get up early, too early for Will to notice, sit on the deck, and smoke her cigarette. Will didn’t have any kind of spine; he would flip if he found her like that. If he said something about her smelling like them, she’d blame it on the neighbor lady, the one who chain-smokes like it’s her job. Will would laugh, he’d give her a kiss, and then he’d leave her alone for the day.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Anna gasps. She blinks a few times and blushes. Throughout her whole reverie, she’d been staring straight at Chip, now halfway through his. Hers was down to the filter, barely burning anymore. She shakes her head and takes the last small inhale left, stubbing it out on the underside of the deck.</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>Chip doesn’t say anything else, which is nice. Sort of. Just once, Anna would like it if someone would ask after her, ask her what’s going on in her head. Again, hypocrite that she is, she wouldn’t say anything. The notion is nice, though. He lifts his chin when he takes an inhale, blowing into the wind overhead. The first time she’d encountered him, his hair was slicked back, either with product or sheer hatred for showering. She never saw him with that hairstyle again.</p><p>“You need a haircut,” she blurts. Chip’s nose wrinkles up. His gaze returns to her and she swallows.</p><p>“A <em>haircut</em>?” he repeats. Her fingers curl by her side, her lips pressing together. She looks closer at him and breathes in. What a fucking risk, she thinks. Lifting her hand, she, as nonchalant as possible, threads her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. Her fingertips find the hollow spot between neck and skull and pull upward and outward from there. There’s truth in what she said about him needing a haircut.</p><p>“Literally all dead ends here,” she says, rubbing a strand of it, testing it. He’s staring at her again, staring at her in the way that he does. Smoke pours from his nose as he exhales, eyes narrowing the tiniest bit. She shrinks under his gaze.</p><p>What a fucking reward.</p><p>They sit in silence, both of their mouths closed around words they want to say. Anna can feel Chip’s jaw clench and unclench, watching him bite his tongue in real time. She does it, too; shoves her tongue into her cheek and refuses to speak. Her hand drifts slowly out of his hair, coming to rest behind her on the deck. She turns away.</p><p>It makes her feel stupid. Heat rushes to her face and she leans forward in her seat, cupping her cheeks with her palms and resting her elbows on her knees. She shouldn’t feel like this, but she does. Please, for all intents and purposes, cut off the man that you scream-cried at less than twenty-four hours ago. A long-fingered hand raises up to her forehead as she stares at the growing grass. Chip would need to mow at some point.</p><p>The thought of that makes her want to double over and scream-cry some more. A deep pit wells up in her chest and suddenly a lot of things fall into their heady places. The mowing, the laundry, the occasional drive to work, the emotional labor; it’s all adding up in a way that she fucking hates.</p><p>Anna is using Chip, just like Will uses her.</p><p>Her eyes widen. Her heart pounds in her chest. She drops her hand from her forehead and starts spinning her ring. The skin of her palms starts to sweat, the rest starts to crawl. She wants to stand up and run away from him, run away from his smoking - oh, God. She chuckles sardonically under her breath, almost crazed. Chip was just a mantlepiece, a look-at-me-look-how-lucky-I-am-to-have-the-eye-candy figurine that she locked in a glass cabinet - just like Will did.</p><p>Anna feels the concerned gaze that Chip levels at her. It rests between the tops of her shoulder blades. A chill races up to meet it. Her ring spins faster on her finger.</p><p>“Fuck it,” she says. She surprises herself a little bit when she jumps - literally <em>jumps</em> - from her place on the porch. She turns around and shoves the cigarettes back into the box, the box back into the Ziploc bag, the bag back under the porch.</p><p>“What the fuck-” Chip starts, but she silences him with a look. He drops the hand that’s holding his cigarette to his lap, looking at her with a combination of fear and adoration. She wants to rip her head off and toss it into the lake.</p><p>“Put it out-” she points at his cigarette, which had put itself out. “- and go upstairs to my bathroom. I’m giving you a haircut.”</p><p> </p><p>Another thing that Anna had to hide from Will was her odd, innate ability to give haircuts. If he knew about that, she wouldn’t see the end of it. He’d bring over his friends for a trim and charge them thirty bucks and then pocket the cash. She’d put up the good wife facade and smile, chagrined, at him while another one of his sweaty asshole comrades sits down in the steel chair he set up in the kitchen.</p><p>But here, now, it feels less like a service. Doing it to Chip, <em>for </em>Chip, it feels almost like an apology. He didn’t complain when she’d ordered him to her bathroom, nor did he complain when she told him to sit down on the little vanity stool she kept tucked under the counter. Now, as she’s brushing his hair, he doesn’t make a sound. Every so often she’ll steal a peek at him in the mirror - she doesn’t feel like she should be looking at him anymore - and catch a glimpse of his blissed-out expression.</p><p>“I could just trim you up and hope that these split ends heal up,” she says, running her fingers through the honey-brown curls at the base of his head. “Or I could take it back down to where it’s healthy.”</p><p>She doesn’t look at him while he considers it. Pressing her lips together, she glances at the stereo sitting on the countertop. Inside is her birthday mix from Ray, playing a Deftones song. It makes her sick to her stomach thinking about Ray. Has Anna been using her, too? What for? Why hasn’t she left-</p><p>“Cut it all.”</p><p>Anna blinks. “Huh?”</p><p>Chip meets her gaze in the mirror. “Just cut it.”</p><p>“I- you’re sure?” Chip steels his gaze.</p><p>“Need the change.”</p><p>Anna wants to say something else, but she doesn’t. She closes her mouth and nods. She grabs a sizeable hank of hair, takes a look at it, then cuts it off. The snap of the scissor blades releases a deep breath from Chip’s chest like they were the resounding gavel that ended a too-long period of time. A faint smile comes upon his lips and Anna raises her eyebrows. A slight nod tells her to keep going.</p><p>She smiles.</p><p>In a few minutes, Chip and Anna are surrounded by a halo of hair. It itches the tops of Anna’s feet as she steps around him, bopping her head along to the music. Chip mouths along to it, trying hard not to move. Anna can tell it’s having an immediate effect on him; he looks twenty-some years younger than he really is, the sharp angles of his jaw unearthed from behind a mass of frizzy curls.</p><p>Anna starts cleaning up his neck when the song changes. Her heart drops into her stomach, easy smile sliding off her face. If she listened hard, she could hear it <em>splat</em> on the floor like a wet rag. She glances at Chip, who’s turned his attention to her in the mirror. His eyebrows are raised, lips parted slightly. She sighs and looks away. Ray was too good at what she did sometimes.</p><p>It’s such a bitter pill to swallow. Then again, is it really? Is it that hard for Anna to believe that she, the used, became the user? It’s what she knows; she’s putting back out what she gets. Maybe it’s what she deserves, this bitter pill. Her face screws up as she tries to focus on the back of Chip’s neck.</p><p>If this was the only way she could think of repenting, she was a shitty person.</p><p>A few more snips here and there, a step back, and Anna finishes with Chip’s haircut. He turns to and fro in the mirror, admiring himself. He looks good like this, almost distinguished. No, Anna thinks. He looks like a <em>kid</em>.</p><p>Chip looks at Anna. It burns her in the same way it always does, but rather than making her warm all over, it’s creating craters where her eyes are. She feels gross. She feels like Will. The look she’s giving him is filled with pure, indistinguishable emotion. His doe eyes flick down, then back up. Her heart clenches so hard that it almost forces a strangled sound out of her chest. He turns away.</p><p>Instinctually, Anna’s hand comes up to play with his hair, sort of like she messes with her own when she finishes cutting it. Chip makes a sound in the back of his throat, a little like a cat purring. She crouches, meeting his height.</p><p>“I like it,” Chip says. “Thank you.” There’s a moment before Anna can say anything.</p><p>“So do I.”</p><p> </p><p>Anna stands over a frying pan in the kitchen, fanning herself with her free hand. Below her, a pancake is sizzling away, surrounded by a ring of melted butter. She grabs the spatula and flips it. Another hidden talent - pancakes.</p><p>The only food she was ever relatively good at making was breakfast. Eggs? Yes. French toast? Yep. Waffles? Sure, if she could find an iron. Nothing really topped her pancakes, though. She would make some for herself on mornings that she was home alone which, nowadays, was quite often.</p><p>Behind her, in the living room, Chip was tucking into his own stack of pancakes. He’d done something she’d never seen before; when he’d been handed his plate, he made a beeline to the fridge, took out the strawberry jelly, and doused his three pancakes in it. It made her chuckle a little bit, but he’d defended himself with a muffled “What?”.</p><p>Anna takes the pancake out of the pan and slides it onto her own plate. On the television, a newscaster is relaying the story of a semi-failed children’s recital put on at the baptist church in the middle of town. She slips a few pats of butter between her pancakes, then pours a bit of syrup on them. It’s all she deserved for now.</p><p>“Now we’re going to take a look at a still-developing story,” the newscaster says. His tone switches from the tiniest bit lighthearted into a deeply professional, stern drone. “The investigators looking into a string of crimes that occurred in Louisiana the past month have found no leads and are calling in federal assistance.”</p><p>Chip chokes on his pancakes a bit. Anna looks at him from the corner of her eye.</p><p>“On Friday, the Louisiana Sherriff’s Department called upon the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis-”</p><p>In a flash, Chip grabs the remote and changes the channel. Rather than the newscast, the television is now playing Judge Judy. Chip drops the remote and sighs through his nose. His shoulders are tense underneath his ratty shirt. A bead of water slides down from the nape of his neck and below the collar. He’d taken a shower just as Anna started dinner.</p><p>“You okay?” She asks. She’s looking at him now.</p><p>He doesn’t say anything.</p><p>Not wanting to press further, Anna looks to Judge Judy. She takes a bite of pancakes and decides not to say anything, either.</p><p> </p><p>Hours pass. Dinner is finished, dishes washed and put away, courtesy of Anna. Chip has long gone to bed downstairs, leaving Anna to her own devices. She sits on the couch, wearing a baggy shirt and a pair of leggings. There’s a <em>Seinfeld </em>rerun playing on the t.v. She’s not watching. Rather, she’s sitting, halfway curled up in a ball, spinning her ring. She might cut her finger off with it at this point.</p><p>Her eyes are sightless, staring ahead. The light from the screen reflects on the dark leather of the couch. She runs her fingers across her lips over and over. Will always says she looks weird when she zones out. She doesn’t have the heart to care.</p><p>Something on the t.v. breaks her out of her trance. She inhales sharply as if waking up from a deep sleep. Her ring stops spinning. The whole reason as to why she’s here in the first place is that she can’t sleep. She would lie and say that it’s too hot upstairs, but that’s not right. She’s still thinking about Chip.</p><p>Anna grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns off the television. Darkness floods into the living room. She stumbles as she gets up, grabbing one of the few throw pillows that she keeps on the couch just because. Blindly she tiptoes forth, half-asleep, tired out of her mind. She feels her way to the opening at the top of the stairs to the basement, dragging her hands around like a handsy kid in an antique shop. She finds the rail and makes the descent.</p><p>The basement is noticeably colder than the rest of the house. Chip got the long end of the stick; it was so much nicer down here in the summers. Anna had asked Will if he’d wanted to sleep in the basement, but he shrugged her off and turned over in bed. Now, when Anna can’t sleep - or just doesn’t want to sleep next to her husband - she sleeps down here.</p><p>“Anna?”</p><p>The sound makes her jump ten feet in the air. She’d somehow made it into the bedroom, standing halfway through the doorway. Chip is sitting up in the bed, covers pooling around his waist. He’s still wearing his old shirt, the grey one that he showed up to Waycross in.</p><p>“Anna?” he asks again.</p><p>She swallows. “Can’t sleep.”</p><p>In the darkness, she can sort of tell Chip’s mouth opens and closes. She stands there, not moving, like a child waiting for permission to sleep with her parents. There’s a rustle of sheets.</p><p>“Lay down, then.” It doesn’t sound like a resignation - instead, it sounds like Chip is <em>inviting </em>her. She doesn’t really pick up on it. Instead, she hugs the throw pillow to her chest and takes short, quick steps to the side of the bed. Reaching down, she finds the covers already turned back. Without another sound, she slips into the bed.</p><p>In the dark, Anna can still see the whites of Chip’s eyes. They stare up at the ceiling. She wraps herself tighter around the pillow at her chest and falls asleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter's song is Doll Parts by Hole! remember the playlist that i kept pushing to you guys? well, i updated it a little while ago! instructions to find it are on chapters 2 and 3. again, thank you all for reading and bearing with me. hopefully i'm gonna be on a more regular writing schedule so we can get back to our regular programming! as always, kudos and comments are always appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the song referenced in this chapter is "I Ran (So Far Away)" by A Flock Of Seagulls. totally classic 80's rock-pop-techno bullshit that allows me to shoehorn in a character description. great song! kudos and comments always appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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